bodies fused together, a soundless gesture of the hand, an inclination of the head, an arching of the hips, the communication of the deaf.
She had never seen another woman seduce a man. Never watched the slow unveiling of another woman’s breasts, the stretch of the cotton, the thumb looped under the shoestring strap.
The woman peeled her shirt from her chest and there was a bra, a black one made almost entirely of lace, more ornate than any of Susanna’s, red thread snaking through a flower pattern. When the woman slipped the tight stretchy skirt from her hips, there was a tiny scrap of fabric covering her pubic area. A matching flower pattern in a triangle barely large enough to cover her sex at all.
The woman stepped away from her dance partner, she swayed on her red stilettos, her garter straps caressed the cheeks of her arse. Tight smooth skin, round like two ripe fruits divided by the dark line of her g-string. She turned so that her back was to James Bacon, bent forward. Her breasts falling towards Susanna, pale as peaches in the dark lace cups. She saw him reach out and cradle them in the palms of his hands. The woman began to hum, a pretty tune, she rockedher body to the beat of it and he stepped towards her, pulled her hips back against his crotch.
He moved his hips to the rhythm she had started, the strange breathy notes tripping from her mouth. He reached out then and his fingers settled on her bra. Susanna remembered this inexpert fumbling. It was a game she often played with her former lover. New bra, new clips, new twists and tugs to be mastered. David had been good with his hands. His hands spoke to her and almost always it was only a momentary pause for him to find the clips and snaps and tug her breasts free. James Bacon was not so dexterous, and after a minute of tugging the woman stood and reached behind her and undid the clasps herself.
There were her breasts. Wondrous things suddenly revealed. Breasts like Susanna’s only heavier, pink tipped where hers were brown, the nipples long and almost like fingers, straws for men to suck on. He turned her around then and took one of those nipples between his lips. Susanna had never before seen a man suckling, the act so tender, his head held gently between her fingers, the red nails tangled in his hair.
As she watched his hand reach out to cup the other breast, the fingers encircling the engorged nipple, her own nipples clenched in sympathy. Her body was there, crouched in the darkness of the cupboard, and yet it was her own breasts being touched—caressed and gentled between his lips. She arched forward, her chest brushed against the slats of thedoor, her nipples snagged on the edge of the wood, she traced them quietly up and down.
She tasted saliva in her mouth. She could feel the hard little finger between her teeth, a phantom of course, because her mouth was empty, but like a teething child she felt her back teeth ache to chew on something.
Susanna watched as his hands slid around behind the woman. He gripped the cheeks of her arse in his palms as if he were weighing this part of her against the heavy breasts he had just relinquished. His fingers slipped into the crevasse between them, toyed with the tiny scrap of black cotton resting there. She noticed one of his fingers slip under the g-string, testing the position and shape of the opening there.
Susanna wanted to join them, she wanted to take his finger and press until it entered the woman, to add her spit to the scene, to ease the passage of his finger up to the knuckle. If this were really Aaron she would do just this. She stared at his fingers. Nothing special about his fingers, nothing out of the ordinary, no moles or liver spots or errant tufts of hair. Fingers like Aaron’s, or like any of her neighbours’. Hands like anybody’s hands.
She watched those hands creep lower, spreading the woman’s cheeks, the fingers testing. She saw the little unself-conscious gesture, the little
She had never seen another woman seduce a man. Never watched the slow unveiling of another woman’s breasts, the stretch of the cotton, the thumb looped under the shoestring strap.
The woman peeled her shirt from her chest and there was a bra, a black one made almost entirely of lace, more ornate than any of Susanna’s, red thread snaking through a flower pattern. When the woman slipped the tight stretchy skirt from her hips, there was a tiny scrap of fabric covering her pubic area. A matching flower pattern in a triangle barely large enough to cover her sex at all.
The woman stepped away from her dance partner, she swayed on her red stilettos, her garter straps caressed the cheeks of her arse. Tight smooth skin, round like two ripe fruits divided by the dark line of her g-string. She turned so that her back was to James Bacon, bent forward. Her breasts falling towards Susanna, pale as peaches in the dark lace cups. She saw him reach out and cradle them in the palms of his hands. The woman began to hum, a pretty tune, she rockedher body to the beat of it and he stepped towards her, pulled her hips back against his crotch.
He moved his hips to the rhythm she had started, the strange breathy notes tripping from her mouth. He reached out then and his fingers settled on her bra. Susanna remembered this inexpert fumbling. It was a game she often played with her former lover. New bra, new clips, new twists and tugs to be mastered. David had been good with his hands. His hands spoke to her and almost always it was only a momentary pause for him to find the clips and snaps and tug her breasts free. James Bacon was not so dexterous, and after a minute of tugging the woman stood and reached behind her and undid the clasps herself.
There were her breasts. Wondrous things suddenly revealed. Breasts like Susanna’s only heavier, pink tipped where hers were brown, the nipples long and almost like fingers, straws for men to suck on. He turned her around then and took one of those nipples between his lips. Susanna had never before seen a man suckling, the act so tender, his head held gently between her fingers, the red nails tangled in his hair.
As she watched his hand reach out to cup the other breast, the fingers encircling the engorged nipple, her own nipples clenched in sympathy. Her body was there, crouched in the darkness of the cupboard, and yet it was her own breasts being touched—caressed and gentled between his lips. She arched forward, her chest brushed against the slats of thedoor, her nipples snagged on the edge of the wood, she traced them quietly up and down.
She tasted saliva in her mouth. She could feel the hard little finger between her teeth, a phantom of course, because her mouth was empty, but like a teething child she felt her back teeth ache to chew on something.
Susanna watched as his hands slid around behind the woman. He gripped the cheeks of her arse in his palms as if he were weighing this part of her against the heavy breasts he had just relinquished. His fingers slipped into the crevasse between them, toyed with the tiny scrap of black cotton resting there. She noticed one of his fingers slip under the g-string, testing the position and shape of the opening there.
Susanna wanted to join them, she wanted to take his finger and press until it entered the woman, to add her spit to the scene, to ease the passage of his finger up to the knuckle. If this were really Aaron she would do just this. She stared at his fingers. Nothing special about his fingers, nothing out of the ordinary, no moles or liver spots or errant tufts of hair. Fingers like Aaron’s, or like any of her neighbours’. Hands like anybody’s hands.
She watched those hands creep lower, spreading the woman’s cheeks, the fingers testing. She saw the little unself-conscious gesture, the little
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