Disclaimers: The work is my own work of fiction and may not be copied in part or whole without my expressed permission. It may not be posted on any other site without my written consent. It may be printed for personal use only but all disclaimers, copyright, and author's name must remain in the body of the story.
Content Warning: This work contains scenes of a sexual nature between consenting adult females. If this is illegal to view in your place of residence or if you are a minor, please close this window or hit BACK. Okay, I admit it, it's borderline PWP?
Author's Notes: The style is a bit different from most stories. Most writers attempt to give you descriptions of people in order for your imaginations to flow. However, this piece was written from the perspective of a dreamer. They already know what they look like, so don't think about it. Some answers are never given in the story nor make sense. Does any dream? It does while it is happening but seems silly once we awaken.
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Jackie stubbed out her cigarette and leaned back. The story she was writing seemed flat and uninspired. Frustrated, she scrolled back up a few paragraphs hoping it would somehow jump-start her imagination.
The woman sat in a dimly lit corner of the bar. She seemed oblivious to everything around her yet she gave off an aura of power and mystery. The writer felt her Muse kick in, mentally taking in the details of the silent scene before her. Terry studied the shadowed planes of her face, the way her broad shoulders blocked the garish florescent neon glow of the jukebox, and the way the woman held her glass with the tips of her fingers along the rim.
A trickle of moisture dribbled from the tipped glass as the woman drank, twinkling briefly in its path to the polished table. Fascinated, Terry's eyes remained locked upon the dark-haired woman as she sat in isolation. Most would find sitting alone in a crowded room awkward. They would fidget or look around nervously. This woman never looked up, nor did she move except to raise her glass. She acted as though the rest of the room didn't exist.
Perhaps it didn't. The waitress headed for the woman's table, cautiously, timidly. Even the outgoing felt compelled to leave the dangerous stranger alone. Terry strained her ears, barely making out the young waitress asking if a refill was wanted. Leaning closer, Terry wanted to hear the woman's voice. Was it deep? Was it soft? The woman didn't reply. She just nodded at the waitress, never looking up at her. The writer swallowed her frustration. It just wouldn't do to stand up and have a temper tantrum at her age.
Spotting the waitress at the bar collecting an order, the writer made a quick decision to head for the jukebox. Just maybe she'd at least hear a word or two spoken by the woman when the waitress returned.
As she got closer, she discreetly took a better look at the woman as she passed her. A strong face. One of someone who has lived a hard life. Certainly a dangerous face, there was no doubt, yet...there was an air of sadness about her. Her practiced eye could see the way time etched her face. She was once a person who knew how to smile. Feeling a sudden burst of compassion for the woman, Terry wondered what terrible event caused this handsome woman to withdraw into herself.
Stepping behind her, the writer faced the gaudy jukebox and tried to concentrate on the song selection as she reached into her pocket for some change. A few songs seemed vaguely familiar and she slowly punched the numbers to her songs as the waitress arrived with the mystery woman's drink. The woman didn't speak. She merely handed over a five and waved the waitress away. Disappointed, Terry punched in her third song choice and returned to her table.
Terry would glance often at the stranger, wondering why she was being so careful. It wasn't like the woman ever looked anywhere but straight ahead. Then, as the third song began on the jukebox, Terry noticed a change. As the soft romantic song began, the woman stiffened. Not much, but to her watchful gaze, it seemed monumental. As the song progressed into the chorus about lost love, the stranger's eyes dropped to her glass as she lowered it to the table.
Her fingers began caressing the sweating drinking glass with her fingertips. In her mind's eye, Terry could easily see that the woman was reliving some bittersweet moment, perhaps recalling a time when she once touched a lover that gently. The writer shivered, envious of the unknown lover the woman caressed in her mind.
Had the woman died? Did they part unhappily? Terry's curiosity was throbbing. It wasn't the only part of her stimulated. She almost laughed aloud at her physical reaction to the dangerous stranger. How stereotyped could a lesbian get? Drawn to the dark and dangerous bad-girl butch. The sudden vibration of her cell phone startled her out of her naughty fantasies.
"Curt here. Don't bother guessing why I called. You know why. Why isn't your next manuscript sitting on my desk yet?"
Terry sighed. On Curt had the balls to harass her at 10:30 PM. He needed a life instead of hounding her.
"Because it isn't done yet. I ran into a writer's block hon. Give me some time," she pleaded.
"Babe, I already knocked back your deadline three times. You need to get busy. You know the public, they lose interest and find some other series to follow. Tell your Muse to get cracking before you end up on the unemployment line."
Terry didn't get a chance to reply. He had hung up. Shit, he meant it this time. She had to get busy, and sitting here lusting after Ms. Tall, Dark, and Dangerous wasn't getting her anywhere. She tossed a few bills on her table and stood up.
Funny how her characters seemed to mirror her own life of late thought Jackie. After shutting down her computer, she crawled into bed.
It was a bitch of a day. She had finally finished her story and sent it off to her publisher, but she wasn't happy with it. She'd probably read it and call her up, screaming every obscenity in her vocabulary. Jackie was convinced she had better find a copy of the want ads because her days as a writer were through. She lost her joy in writing and it showed. Nothing inspired her anymore. Unless her Muse got a huge jumpstart, it was dead in the water.
She put her hands on the Post Office's front door and began pushing it, only to have it pull away from her suddenly. Glancing up, she was stunned as a woman stopped to look down at her. It's her! Said her Muse. The woman she invented in her story. The tall dark-haired woman fit her in every detail. The strong face, the wide shoulders, the old eyes.
She stood there gaping at the woman, unable to move a muscle. The woman almost smiled at her, the corner of her generous mouth quirking just a tad.
"May I go inside?' the woman asked softly, her low timbered voice causing ripples of pleasure along Jackie's spine. The words didn't really register in her mind with any speed. It took several moments to understand what the woman had asked. Embarrassed, her face turning the same shade as her hair, Jackie stepped aside and mumbled out an apology.
"No problem darling, no problem." The woman winked at her and patted her flaming cheek as she passed.
The writer felt the rush of desire and excitement from the touch and could only stand there, watching the woman as she headed for the rat maze waiting line. It wasn't until another person bumped past her that she got a hold of herself enough to leave.
Jackie rushed home and flipped on the power to her computer before reaching for her phone. She dialed up her publisher's office. The woman barely got the chance to say hello.
"Jan, dump what I sent you in the trashcan, my Muse has returned with a vengeance and I'm rewriting the story. Thanks, bye!"
Sharon shifted the phone at her ear and leaned back to light a cigarette. Bev, I had this really weird dream, wanna hear about it?"
"Absolutely!" her British friend told her. Sharon could always count on her to be a cheerleader for her Muse.
"I had this dream about writing a story—about a writer—writing about a writer. Weird huh?" Not giving her a chance to reply, she continued. "Anyway, the writer in my story writes about a really great woman, only this woman suddenly appears in her real life. Now the writer is wondering if it was a dream within a dream, ya know? The woman keeps popping up, but the writer is writing about this woman and how she appears in her real life, then disappears! So the poor writer is wondering if she lost her marbles or if she'd still asleep, dreaming the whole thing.
"And how does it end?"
"I don't know, my stupid alarm clock woke me up before the end of the dream. I guess when I write it, I'll let my Muse finish it. "
Bev gave a saucy suggestion, making Sharon laugh. They caught up on what was going on with each other and hung up when their time was running low on Bev's phone card.
Returning to her computer, she opened her word processor and typed in the beginning of her dream.
Jackie was typing furiously, the words flooding out of her faster than she could type the words. For once she wasn't concerned with content, grammar, or structure. She just wanted the images to escape while the Muse was humming. In this zone, she wasn't conscious of what was being written, almost as though someone else was in control. Hence she named it her Muse.
The Muse was a happy camper. Terry was also happy, typing away about her fantasies about the mysterious stranger. Jackie/Terry had a very naughty imagination Sharon thought, chuckling to herself.
Jackie grinned as her character watched the woman she had mentally dubbed as 'The Exile'. Terry had once again spotted the woman walking downtown late one night. Curiosity got the better of her and she followed her at a distance, wondering what she could learn about her.
The Exile didn't seem to have a destination in mind, merely strolling along business district, indistinct from the other people walking that night. Darkness did that, allowed people to fade into the shadows, seen but unnoticed, blended by harsh shadows and glaring shop lights.
But the Exile was seen, at least by Terry and the streetwalkers. It didn't take much intuition for the experienced women to see where she leaned. The Exile was approached by a young hooker, probably no more than seventeen. The girl was nudged by one of her older co-workers towards the tall woman who was walking past them. Perhaps it was her first night Terry thought.
What was going through her mind at that moment? Was the girl the type to enjoy women or was she scared out of her mind by the idea of hustling this powerfully built woman in black? Terry couldn't choose which fitted her better. The girl was out of her league with the Exile. She was a wild thing, dangerous and tightly coiled. Every move was graceful and controlled, not a motion wasted.
The girl walked closer to the Exile, blocking her path. The tall woman slowed, bent near the girl's ear, whispered something, and kept going. The would-be hooker burst into tears and ran from her friends. The writer wondered what had been said but didn't stop to find out. The Exile had turned a corner and was out of sight.
Terry sped her walk and rushed around the corner, looking around to see where she had gone. The Exile had disappeared. Kicking a lamppost, the writer thrust her hands into her coat pockets and headed back towards her car.
Jackie was having a wonderful dream. Warm hands were stroking her softly as a wet mouth was teasing her aching breasts. Enjoying the attention, she felt her body arch upwards as she told her dream lover what she wanted. Bold teeth tugged on her nipples, bringing her a little pain mixed with pleasure. Moaning, she pulled her lover closer as her pelvis rose to press against a firm hip.
Her lover didn't speak or make a sound, but in Jackie's dream, she didn't need to. Her lover knew her every desire. Her nipples where sucked hard upon, making her gasp and beg for more. Jackie knew she was close to the end just as she was, but her dream lover knew what she wanted most of all. A large warm hand urged her thighs apart and without so much as a teasing touch, thrust long fingers deeply and roughly into her.
Crying out her pleasure, she felt the wave building faster as her lover took complete control of her, forcing her quickly towards the ending Jackie didn't want to arrive. The powerful fingers drove harder, just short of painful, as the mouth on her breast kept perfect tempo with the hand. It was too much. Jackie felt her orgasm hit, leaving her dazed and throbbing. It wasn't fair! She reached for her lover, silently begging her to continue, but found herself alone in the bed.
Panting, Jackie felt her world shift as the shrill of the alarm clock reached her ears. She slapped it into blessed silence and tried to catch her breath. The bed sheets smelled of her arousal. The sun was shining, and she could still feel the aftershocks of her orgasm. God, she needed a cigarette. Stumbling out of bed, she headed for the bathroom for a smoke and a pee.
Sitting there, she recalled the dream she had and decided to avoid writing the steamer parts of the story just before bedtime. Stubbing out her smoke, she flushed the toilet and turned on the water for a shower. Tossing her damp t-shirt in the hamper she hopped into the shower, letting the warm water wash away the evidence of her dream.
It wasn't until she began drying off that she noticed something. Glancing into the large bathroom mirror, she saw them. Convinced she was seeing things, Jackie tore her eyes away from the mirror and looked down. Her nipples were bruised and she could see faint bite marks.
What as going on? Terrified that perhaps someone had taken her in her sleep, she grabbed a robe and rushed out of the room. Were they still there? A frantic search of the apartment only confused her more. She was alone in her home and the doors and windows all locked. Sitting down in a chair, the writer wondered if she was losing her mind.
Terry spotted The Exile again two weeks later. Actually, she fell into her arms to be exact. She had been walking in the park and stopped to help a little boy who had gotten his kite stuck up in a tree. She had climbed it, rescued the tattered toy, and looked down at laughing brown eyes.
"Need help getting down?" Terry nodded mutely and leaned down, placing her hands on those wonderfully strong shoulders. Large hands circled her waist and lifted her off the branch. The Exile didn't follow the polite rules. Instead, she pulled Terry close and allowed her body to slide against her larger form as she was lowered. Once down, the dark-haired woman didn't let her go. She slid her large hand to the small of her back and pulled the writer snuggly against her.
"You've been watching me," The Exile stated calmly.
Unable to deny it, she flushed in embarrassment.
"Let's take a walk," the taller woman suggested, leading her away from the noisy playground. Neither women spoke. They neared one of the large stone restrooms the park provided and The Exile guided her inside. They were alone. They stared at one another for a few minutes, then the mystery woman leaned closer and kissed her. It was gentle yet wild. Terry could feel the beast the woman kept in check. The kiss ended.
"Am I being presumptuous?" she asked. Terry shook her head.
"Here or somewhere else?" Terry didn't need for the woman to explain. Her eyes glanced at the large handicap stall. They entered it and shut the door.
The Exile lowered the lid and sat down. A gentle tug on Terry's hand brought her down onto her lap, straddling her powerful thighs. The kiss continued, both women clutching at one another as they parted clothing and the heat built. It wasn't going to last long.
The Exile lifted Terry's t-shirt and found her breasts. Popping the clasp in front, her soft curves filled her hands. Moaning softly, the taller woman teased and plumped them as she thrust her tongue inside Terry's mouth. Both women moaned and dueled for dominance but the Exile won. She broke the kiss and lowered her mouth to lick at the already stiff nipples. The writer leaned back, whimpering with pleasure. Then fingers found each nipple and pinched at them.
Terry gasped. "Oh God, not too rough!" she pleaded.
"You aren't interested in me because I'm safe. You want me because I'm risky," The Exile told her hoarsely. Terry bit her lip as the fingers firmly tweaked the sensitive flesh. "I'm going to have you, here and now, just the way I want. You will remain VERY quiet. The game is to make sure we're not discovered. You make any loud noise, I stop and walk away. Understand?"
Already wet and aching for more, she nodded quickly, hoping she could remain silent. The Exile lowered her mouth and began suckling on her sore nipples. Lowering her large hands, she reached under Terry's skirt and ripped the material of her panties, leaving her available to the larger woman's touch. Her fingers teased her, rubbing against her slick flesh. Terry tightly pressed her lips together and swallowed a moan.
"Very good, now for the fun part," the woman whispered. She pulled a dildo from her pocket and unzipped her jeans, exposing a harness. A little maneuvering and it was ready. She lifted the writer until she was positioned above it and pulled her down. Terry could feel the silicon toy press inside of her, inch by inch. It was bigger than she was used to. She whimpered in discomfort as it stretched her beyond normal. Just when she thought she could take no more, it was completely inside of her.
The Exile's large hands grasped her by the hips and gently began guiding her. Much to Terry's relief, the motions were slow and slight, the toy barely moving inside of her. The large woman urged her to lean back a little and her mouth returned to her nipples, this time teasing them softly. After about a minute, the dark-haired woman paused long enough to ask if Terry was enjoying it. The writer smiled and nodded, her eyes still closed in pleasure.
"Keep moving just that way. I need my hands for other things," she was ordered. Terry gripped the dark overcoat at the shoulders and continued the movement of her hips. Then warm fingers teased along her belly then lower, finding her sensitive nub. She almost cried out at the exquisite sensation. The fingers began stroking her firmly, increasing the intensity. Terry found herself moving more forcefully on the toy inside of her, pumping in longer and harder strokes as she neared her release.
Her breathing came in muffled sobs and she did her best not to shout out in pleasure as the pressure built. She was extremely close. The Exile took possession of her mouth and suddenly stood. Her powerful frame easily lifted her before pressing her against the cold steel wall. Keeping her mouth over her own, she muffled the surprised cry of the smaller woman as her hands grabbed her bottom and began thrusting into her.
Each hard thrust drove the silicon toy deep into her. Now accustomed to it, she wrapped her arms and legs tightly around the straining woman, urging her on. In the back of her mind, she knew she'd be sore for days, but she didn't care. It felt too good. The pleasure built and she felt the warm flush of her approaching climax. She gripped the large woman tighter and felt one last powerful thrust slam into her. The writer's scream of release was dampened by the bruising mouth, then removed, allowing her to breath freely. They both remained still, trembling from their experience.
Finally, The Exile withdrew from her body and straightened her dark clothing. Then she leaned down, brushed a soft kiss across the writer's lips and left the stall, closing the door behind her. Terry didn't need to look out the door to know the stranger would be gone when she left the building.
"Damn, I need a cold shower!" Jackie muttered. She twisted her torso, stiff from sitting for too many hours in front of her computer. "And what I really need is a good lay," she confessed to herself. It had been far too long since her last lover. The writer stood up and considered her options. It was in the middle of the week. Pickings would be slim, but maybe she could find someone to just chat with. Any sort of social contact would be welcomed at this point. Her decision made, she changed clothing and headed out the door.
Hailing a taxi, she named the first lesbian bar she could think of. She wondered if it was even still open. Thinking back, she realized that it had been about 4 years since the idea of barhopping had been appealing. The driver nodded and entered traffic. Glad she didn't have to think of a second choice, she stared out the hazy car window and let her thoughts drift.
The sights went by in an unfocused blur, unnoticed on the most part. Then something caught her eye. A tall woman in an overcoat. Shock of seeing the mystery woman made her cry out, startling the taxi driver.
"Pull over!" she screamed at him.
"What? Are you crazy lady?" He frantically sought a place to leave traffic and came to a halt. She tossed him a twenty and flung open the door. Where was she? Spotting the tall figure entering a building, Jackie hurried her steps to follow.
Nearing the entrance, she spotted a sign showing it to be a gym. Approaching the front counter, the woman behind it asked if she were a member. Fibbing, Jackie told her she was just shopping around for a new gym in her neighborhood. Told to feel free look around or to ask any questions, she was handed some literature. Thanking the woman, she walked into the gym. Her mystery woman wasn't to be seen. Was she in the changing room? As a walk in guest, she certainly couldn't go in and look.
The gym wasn't crowded this late at night. A few men were scattered about. She received a few appreciative looks but she avoided eye contact with them, pretending interest in the bulletin board on the wall. Then the sound of a squeaky door being opened. The writer slowly began looking around and saw the woman enter the weight room.
Dressed in skimpy navy shorts and a gray sports bra that left little to the imagination, Jackie felt her insides do a pleasurable skip. The woman was covered in a golden tan and well toned.
Tossing a towel over the bench, the woman began light reps with a bar, pressing it in even smooth motions. The writer was enthralled. She watched as the powerful woman worked through one set before adding more weight to the bar. Returning to the bench, she began a working in earnest, working up a sheen of sweat. As Jackie watched, she became aware that the woman's nipples were hard, tenting the cotton material invitingly. Did working out cause it, or something else? Perhaps sensing she was being watched and desired.
"Care to spot me?" her low voice asked. Startled, the writer walked towards her, placing her purse and brochures on the next bench.
"What do I do?" she managed to squeak out.
"Keep your hands near mine on the bar. Don't try to do anything with it unless I start wobbling, okay?" Jackie nodded. The woman paused long enough for the writer to position her hands then began pumping the iron bar once more.
Now much closer, she could see the gathering sweat and scattering of light freckles across the woman's chest. Fascinated with the play of muscles, Jackie was sure she couldn't possibly be any real help as a spotter.
After finishing the set, the woman moved to another bench, one without bars. She picked up a pair of dumbbells before leaning back on the slanted bench.
"Can you spare the time to keep spotting me or do you have to leave?" the woman asked.
Jackie said she could stay, thinking she be damned if she'd leave now. Following the woman's instructions, she stood behind her and placed trembling hands around the woman's elbows. Biting back an appreciative moan at the contact, Jackie relished the smooth, warm texture of the skin beneath her fingers.
Looking down, the writer noticed how near their faces were. A bit closer and she could take those full lips and ravish them. The writer peeked at the woman's eyes and saw them laughing. She knew! The woman knew she had been attracted to her and played her well. It was just a game. Suddenly angry, Jackie stood up and started collecting her things.
"Wait, please," the woman asked gently.
"Why should I? You're just toying with me," the writer spat out.
"Isn't that what you expected of me?" the woman asked sadly. Jackie stared at her, confused. "Don't most of us sense what others see in us and fulfill those expectations?" Jackie looked at her, realizing that that was exactly right.
Hadn't she always done as she was told. Acting the exact way her parents expected her to? Didn't she behave differently with each individual friend, knowing each person saw her differently? Maybe she did expect this tall stranger to act like a predator.
But there wasn't a rule saying you HAD to fill people's preconceived ideas about you, and told the woman so.
"True, but I've found people think you're playing games or lying if you tell them differently. " The mystery woman saw she wasn't entirely convinced, so she continued. "For example, what if I had told you I was a ballet teacher?"
Jackie choked and laughed at the same time.
"See? That doesn't fit your preconceived idea about me, so you would assume I'm just jerking your chain. Most people play this little game Jackie, even you. I bet the only time you are truly yourself with no pretences is when you write. No one, not even your closest friends know all that you are...and it's easier to play let's pretend than work on knowing someone for who they are. Isn't it?"
There was truth to her words and Jackie felt suddenly exposed. This woman knew who she was, but to her shame, she realized she had never asked the dark-haired butch her name. The buff woman had been an object of lust, not a real person. She had accused the woman of toying with her, but was her behavior any better? Looking back, Jackie cringed inside, not liking what she saw. A tear ran down her cheek but she didn't bother to wipe it away.
A strong arm circled her shoulder and the writer glanced up just as her tall mystery woman lifted her thumb and brushed away the tear.
"It's okay, really," she murmured.
"No, it isn't, but for all its worth, I really am sorry." She sniffed and bent down to collect her purse. "I should just leave."
"Feeling a bit naked? I'm sorry Jackie. I didn't mean to upset you."
"You didn't upset me. I did that all by myself. But yes, I feel naked. You hit pretty close to home about my writing and now I can't help but wonder how much I have exposed of myself," she confessed shakily.
"But every good writer is part of their story Jackie. Who and what you are is the foundation of each work. If nothing of yourself is in your story, then the piece is just words without a soul."
The writer barked out a nervous laugh, "Yeah, and perceptive people like you see every quirk of my personality."
The woman chuckled, "That's certainly true, but I see little to dislike. C'mon, let me grab my coat and we'll go have a cup of coffee. What do you say?" The woman smiled charmingly.
Jackie tried to look reluctant, "Well...on one condition."
"And that is?"
"Tell me your name," Jackie said sheepishly.
"Cora. Cora Ashford." The woman laughed, seeing the familiar look of disbelief on her face, "Yeah, I know. I don't look like a Cora. But my friends call me Cash."
"It fits you better." Jackie shook her head, wondering what possessed her folks to name her that.
"Don't ask," came the answer to her silent question.
The next day, couldn't concentrate on her writing and decided to try phoning Cash. Perhaps she wasn't working and was home. Not finding her number in the book, she tried information. She wasn't listed. Frustrated, Jackie considered calling the gym. Maybe they could be conned into giving out her number. Looking it up, she had the same luck with the business. Now she was confused.
She picked up her purse and headed for the lobby to catch a taxi. She was dropped off close to the same spot as the night before and she headed for the gym.
And found it boarded up. The lumber was sun faded, obviously there for years. The writer was positive she had the right place. She remembered the bookstore next door. Maybe they knew what was going on. Jackie entered the store, hearing the sound of little brass bells tinkling as she walked in. An older man sat behind the counter, reading a newspaper.
"Excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me?"
"If I can. Were you looking for a special title?" he asked kindly.
"No, not with a book I'm afraid. I was in this neighborhood last night, and I swore I saw a gym next door to your store, but it's boarded up. Or am I totally confused?"
"Well, if I recall, the business there used to be one of them newfangled hippy stores or some such. It closed about two years ago. I think the closest gymnasium in this area is two streets down, on Broadmore."
Jackie knew she hadn't been on Broadmore last night. Still reeling in confusion, she thanked the proprietor and left. Maybe she really was losing her mind.
"Following me again?" came the amused question from just behind her. Terry jumped at the unexpected voice.
"Um, no, I wasn't actually. I was just on my way home."
"Uh huh, sure. I believe you," The Exile said, not convinced. "So, are you planning on taking me home with you? If you have a mind to that is."
Mind? Terry nearly laughed. She swore she was still experiencing aftershocks from their last encounter. She grinned hugely and took the exile's arm, leading the way home.
Inside, the tall woman slipped off her overcoat and tossed it on top of the high-backed chair. Her dark eyes looked over every inch of the room before strolling towards the bedroom. Terry followed her casually, allowing the mystery woman time to fill her curiosity. When they reached the bedroom, the tall woman looked up at one of the writer's souvenirs hanging on the wall.
"A riding crop? For horses or something a bit kinkier?" the woman leered.
Terry blushed. "A memento from an ex. She wanted to try it on me once. It didn't work out."
"The ex or the toy?" The Exile asked, grinning ear to ear.
"Both. She left soon after and the experience merely left me...saddle sore," she said tongue in cheek.
The taller woman took down the crop and strolled over to her. "Maybe you just needed a more skilled hand. Undress," she ordered.
Terry shivered. Their last experience had been, exciting, a little scary, but in spite of the tall woman's dominate behavior, she hadn't been cruel. The woman had remained at the edge of the writer's comfort zone without crossing over to where she'd be too frightened to experience pleasure from their sexual encounter. In that light, Terry realized she actually trusted this dangerous woman. She slipped off her clothing while the woman watched with a heated gaze. Once nude, her tall lover pulled her close and softly ravished her lips.
Moaning, Terry pressed herself closer, but wanted more than the rough abrasion of the woman's clothing against her. She pulled on the coat lapels, urging her lover to shrug if off. One barrier gone, she tugged on the hem of the tucked shirt and slid her hands under it. Both women hummed in pleasure at the contact. Terry pulled her mouth away briefly, long enough to order The Exile to take it all off.
They managed to keep their mouths locked as the shirt parted and the jeans were unzipped. The writer's hands reached up and squeezed the Exile's breasts then broke the kiss. Playing with the soft fullness as she gazed at the small nipples. She noted a small Taz tattoo drawn to appear to be sitting atop the left breast, gave it a kiss, then lowered her lips to take one nipple into her mouth.
"No, not yet," came the hoarse command. The writer's wrists were taken firmly and placed behind her back, held by one large hand. "We had another plan in mind, remember?"
Terry could only whimper with need, but didn't argue, even as she watched the woman yank her leather belt from her jeans. The writer was suddenly nervous. Did she intend to whip her with it? Heart pounding, she watched as the belt went behind her back. The warm leather was wrapped securely around her wrists. The belt wasn't tight, nor was it loose. A bit of struggling would probably dislodge it. Her nervousness eased just a bit.
The Exile urged her back until her legs bumped into the edge of the high bed. She felt herself fall backwards onto it and was instantly covered by her lover. The dark-haired woman began nibbling and kissing along her neck, sending shivers of delight along her spine. Her lover took her time, content to linger. The caresses moved lower by agonizing inches, driving the captive woman wild. By the time the warm mouth reached her breasts, she was arching hard, begging for her to take them.
A slick tongue darted out, teasing a rigid nipple. Terry arched higher, wanting more. "Don't tease me!" She begged. Her lover chuckled.
"Fickle woman, you didn't want it rough last time," she reminded the writer as she continued the tiny licks.
"I don't care!" she complained, "Take them, rough if you want to!" she begged.
Her lover's mouth took possession of the breast, sucking hard on the peak. Terry writhed in pleasure, gasping as the aching need eased. The hot mouth moved breast to breast, alternating between suckling and soft nips. The writer couldn't remain still. Her body arched with each sensation, burning with need. When the mouth left her breasts, she moaned in frustration, wanting more. The lips moved further down, teasing her belly and hips. She parted her thighs invitingly, her desire to feel that wonderful mouth where she ached the most. The woman pulled away and stood.
Terry didn't have time to protest. She felt herself being pulled back and over until her thighs hung off the mattress. The bed sat fairly high and just her toes touched the floor. The Exile leaned on one knee to her left, placing her palm on her shoulders, holding her down. The sudden sting of the crop hitting her bottom made her gasp.
The stroke wasn't a cruel one, but the writer was sure a welt would rise. Her breathing increased, the fear of what was to happen making her heart pound wildly. Long seconds stretched out, then another stroke. Neither woman said a word. The stinging on her bottom took root, and Terry realized that she found the mild pain arousing. Her hips pressed against the mattress in attempt to stimulate herself.
Another stroke. Terry moaned pleasurably and felt herself present her bottom, silently begging for another strike. While she waited eagerly, she noticed that the crop struck just a little lower each time, never overlapping. Another strike from the crop. Terry could feel the evidence of her arousal trickle down her thighs. She whimpered into the comforter as her hips ground into the mattress.
"One more?" her lover asked kindly. She nodded her head, unable to form words. The last stroke came, just a little stronger than the others. The writer could feel herself throb in desire. The bed bounced slightly as her lover moved away. Warm palms rested on her bottom then lightly caressed each side before parting her thighs. Terry waited in aroused agony then moaned as a wet tongue slid over her tingling cheeks. Passionate moans began in earnest as the tongue licked lower and lower, teasing the underside of her cheeks. Her thighs parted wider, begging for more as a hand found her hip and rolled her over.
The writer watched as the tall woman knelt closer and lifted her legs, placing them over her broad shoulders. Terry knew what her lover intended. Her lover eagerly moved in, taking her roughly with her mouth. It wasn't going to be slow and tender. Terry could already feel her climax approaching and she gritted her teeth, willing it at bay. The mystery woman wouldn't hear of it. She began sucking harder, pulling on her sensitized flesh.
Screaming from the intensity, she felt her body jump and thrash as the woman continued her assault. Large hands held her hips still as the Exile's mouth forced her into a powerful orgasm and eased off.
Terry felt her body go limp except for her labored breathing and twitching hips. Once she had the strength, she rolled over onto her side, curling up. While recovering, Terry felt the binding on her wrists fall away. Warm hands helped to ease her completely onto the bed. A blanket was wrapped around her and a soft kiss lingered at her temple. Too limp to even smile, she drifted to sleep.
"At least someone is getting a little," griped the suffering Jackie. "Oh Jesus, I have lost my mind! I'm bitching because my characters are getting laid!" She thumped her forehead on the keyboard and groaned. Hindered by dead ends and questioning her very sanity, the redhead felt tears burn her eyes.
She had hired a private investigator who found nothing on anyone by the name of Cora Ashford. He had verified that there was only one gym—found on Broadmore and it didn't match her description of the interior. Convinced her fantasy life had invaded and overlapped her real life, Jackie wiped away her tears and picked up a phone book. It was time to seek help.
"Actually Jackie, I don't believe your problems are so insurmountable. You willingly admit that this 'Cora' is a character from your book and you know she can't possibly be real," Dr. Gray informed her. "You haven't 'snapped' to quote you. I do believe you could benefit from counseling however. You're suffering from a lot of stress and this could just be your mind's way of telling you to slow down.
The brain is an incredible machine, often working on a level we aren't even aware of. I'd like to schedule you to come in weekly at first, then as things improve, we can easily adjust it to suit your needs." Jackie didn't argue. She nodded wearily and thanked the doctor, promising to see the receptionist on her way out.
Weeks passed, and Jackie felt her strain easing. She hadn't seen Cora again and her book was finished. She wouldn't be used again in future books. As far as the writer was concerned, that was the end of her invented character.
Jackie leaned against the wall in Dr. Gray's office, people watching through the large window as they spoke. She often found it more conductive to speaking than staring at the walls or looking into the doctor's eyes.
Dr. Gray studied the relaxed woman, noting that she looked more rested and at ease. They had spoken at great lengths and she felt the time to spread out their visits had arrived.
"Jackie, I think you're ready to—"
"Oh my God!" the writer moaned in shock.
"What is it Jackie?"
"It's her!" she gasped out as she pointed at someone outside. The doctor stood quickly and followed her pointing finger. A tall woman with dark hair was strolling past the front of her office building. Making a decision, she pulled her patient from the window and ordered her to follow her. They ran outside past the stunned receptionist. Once outdoors, she quickly looked down the street, spotting the woman. She jogged after her, Jackie on her heels.
"Cash!" the writer called out. The mysterious woman turned around, smiled and walked towards them. The doctor was taken aback. Her patient was convinced this woman was a character from her book. Perhaps she had been hasty with her assessment. She watched the women greet one another with hugs. She had to get the woman to return to the office with them. Jackie had to realize this was just someone who looked like her character and not some sort of twilight zone person.
"Hello, my name is Dr. Sheila Gray, Jackie's therapist. Could I ask you to come back to my office with us? I think we need to talk." The woman looked puzzled but agreed. They entered the building and shut the office door.
"Go ahead and sit down." The doctor picked up her phone and asked her receptionist to inform everyone she would run late today. Sitting down with a sigh, she looked at the women as they held hands on the sofa.
"You're Cora Ashford, correct?" she asked. The woman nodded, still at a loss. "Cora, Jackie and I have been working together for the last month. She had been concerned about a few happenings in her life, some of her issues were about you." She glanced at her patient, silently asking for permission to continue. The writer nodded.
"You see, she had been writing a story, somewhat complex, about a mystery woman. This character had this habit of showing up, leaving the main character reeling, then disappearing like a will-o-wisp. On top of that, she had several disturbing dreams. Then she met you." The doctor held up her hand, already predicting the question. "You happen to look and act exactly like this mysterious character. You appeared in her life and then disappeared. She tried to find to you to no avail, and questioned her sanity when she couldn't."
Cash looked down at the writer, seeing the misery and embarrassment in her eyes.
"So I'm here to reassure her that I'm not some sort of spirit?" The doctor nodded.
"Jackie, it's important for you to put aside your imagined view of her, don't you think? She's here, in the flesh and not some character come to life. Perhaps you had seen her somewhere, forgotten about it, and she influenced you when you developed a new character." The doctor watched as her patient's shoulders slumped.
"Yes, it's quite possible. God, I feel so stupid," she moaned, covering her reddening face with her hands. "When I couldn't find you, I thought I had lost my mind. I'm sorry, this is so embarrassing. I can't believe what I had been thinking."
"It's okay Jackie. That's what makes you a great writer, your vivid imagination. Besides, how could you find me? I don't have a local phone number and I'm living with my cousin for the winter while my house is being remodeled in Florida."
"And I have an unlisted number, so there was no way you could find me either," the writer added miserably.
"See? Perfectly rational," the doctor chimed in. "Why don't the two of you go spend some time together, chat a while without some nosy therapist listening to every word," Dr. Gray grinned. The women stood and said their goodbyes.
The doctor picked up her patient's file and made a notation, 'One mystery solved.'
Sharon nuzzled the strong shoulder and watched Taz dance as her lover giggled. She was so damned ticklish. Plopping her cheek down, she snuggled close, settling in for a nice nap.
The alarm went off within seconds of her eyes closing, startling her. Slamming her hand onto the nasty clock, she lowered her cheek once more and buried her face in her pillow.