I shuffle about our junkdrawer, digging through the pens and pre-wrapped plastic utensils printed with the faded logo of the fast food restaurant at the corner of our block, the symbols unreadably worn.
“See any in there, Fluttershy?” Rainbow hovers over me, peering into the drawer but not touching.
After she had left a pack of cheese-balls in there over summer vacation, with the AC at 80℉, she’s not allowed to fiddle with the junk drawer anymore. The stench had been appalling.
“Just why do you need some gum again?” I lean down and peer into the back of the drawer. I think I see a bit of green there. I stuff my hand in, yank the drawer again, and free it of the blockage—a box of crayons from somewhere. The bit of green turns out to be a decorative, fake leaf from one of the Hearth’s Warming candle holders Rarity gave us last year.
I slide the drawer closed again and open the cupboard door underneath it. Maybe a pack fell behind… I know we have, or had, some at some point.
“Well… y’see…” Rainbow scrubs at the back of her neck, blue cheeks flushed. “I need something minty.”
“Isn’t your toothpaste mint?” I think I know where this is going, but she has proven me wrong before.
“Yeah. Sorta. It’s just not strong enough, though. Like, it’s all fake minty with menthol and ethyl whatevers in it. It’s not mint mint. You know, like… leafy.” She pulls open the liquor cupboard and fishes around. “Say… where’d that whiskey go?”
“We used the last little bit of it in a barbeque sauce last month, remember?”
“Oh. Right.” She closes the door again and throws herself against the counter, elbows perched on the edge. I look up to see her watching me, lips twisted into an almost frown. It fades quickly. “I was kinda wanting a mint julep. You know. Because the holidays are close.” She shrugs and looks away, scrubbing the back of her neck.
She is a terrible liar. I close the door and stand up to peck her cheek. I think she knows that I know she’s lying, and it embarasses her. I purse my lips at her, but she gives me a dazzling smile. I know I will ferret it out of her, eventually, and all the little signs I’ve learned over four years tell me this is just a little lie, something to protect her pride—I’ve learned to let her have those. I lean in again and kiss the point of her chin.
That close, her mouth does smell faintly minty, but she holds it in until I duck away. “Campus is closed, and all the liquor stores will be closing by this time. If you want some whiskey, or mint, you’ll have to run. If anything’s even open.”
“Yeah, no. Nobody’s open, now. Not tonight, and not within twenty miles.” She tilts her head back and stares up at the ceiling. “And that’s fine. Finals are over, no track meets for another couple months.” She turns to smile at me. “And our friends are gone for the break, too. Twilight, to her home to see her parents with Sunset Shimmer in tow, Pinkie Pie and Applejack are bouncing between their farms for the holiday break, and Rarity is overseas with her parents.” She sighs, and I hear as much as feel the tension flow out of her with it. “It’s just us on campus. Nobody to come over, nobody’s gonna call and ask us to do something last minute. It’s our night.”
“And we’re together.”
“Yep. We’re together.” She lolls her head to the side and grins at me, the extra emphasis on ‘together’ sending a thrill through me. “And I’m not leaving your side tonight for anything. We’ve both been planning on this for too long. Sort of. So what if not everything goes exactly according to plan. Let Twilight worry about that kind of thing.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Plans, lists… I dunno. Twilight things.” She shrugs and reaches out to brush her fingers against my cheek, back into my hair, brushing against my ear, and her lips part for a kiss. She freezes, licks her lips, and lets her hand fall to my shoulder, gently massaging my neck. Her cheeks color briefly. “We had fun today, right?”
“The parade,” I murmur, blushing. “That was fun. It got a little chilly at the end, but everyone was huddled close. And the floats were nice.”
“Yeah. Then our walk home,” she adds. Her hand slips down my arm to twine her fingers with mine. “You’re right, you know. The park in winter really is gorgeous, and the way your cheeks light up in the wind…” She squeezes my hand, her smile growing. “Kinda like you’re blushing all the time. It’s cute.”
She doesn’t know, of course, that I was. Or maybe she does. I lift her hand to kiss our entwined fingers. “And a quiet dinner together.” The smell of the roast I’d put in a couple hours ago fills the kitchen. The oven is just hot enough to cook through slowly, and I can hear its juices simmering in the pan.
I check again to make sure I remembered to put the roast on a rack. Rainbow sighs and pushes herself off the counter, catches my hands, kissing their backs, then my palms, and tugs me out of the kitchen and into her arms.
“What if it over—”
She presses a finger to my lips. “You don’t have to spend the entire evening in the kitchen, you know. We can… do whatever.” Her arched brow suggests what she has in mind, sometimes a one-track mind, but she’s taken me along paths I am surprised to find I enjoy along with her.
I smile and give her a quizzical look, reaching for a kiss. she ducks away, kissing my neck instead, burying her face in a handful of my hair. “We could watch a movie.” My fingers twine into her hair, digging deeply into the thick ruff still damp from a quick shower.
“Mmm… Maybe.” Her hand on my hip slips up to brush my bare skin under the sweatshirt. Her chin rests on my shoulder, and I feel her hand in my hair shift as she takes a deep breath. “Or…”
I follow her lead, slipping my hand under the band of her shorts, my other pressing a damp length of hair to my nose. She’s been using my shampoo, and it mingles with the afterthought of sweaty exertion rising from her. I lean forward, pressing my nose into her hair to breathe more deeply of that eau de Rainbow, kiss her ear, and whisper, “Or… Pony Cart 3?”
She laughs, a short, sharp bark that dissolves into a poorly suppressed fit of giggles. “N-not quite what I had in mind.”
I pull back, looking her in the eyes, and see the smoldering coals there that must surely be lit in mine. “Oh?”
“Or… you know…” She takes a deep breath, quelling the giggles, and draws her fingers back along my cheek. “You always smell good,” she murmurs. “How do you do that?
“You’re being evasive tonight,” I venture, pulling back to look her in the eyes. “Do you have something else planned?”
“Um… Well, not really. Not… not…” Rainbow shakes her head, eyes glazing, and darts a glance back into the kitchen. “I, um. I had…” Her voice grows softer as the embrace lingers, frozen in the moment of almost parting. She blinks rapidly, her cheeks flushing. “So. How long for dinner?”
I blink, surprised by the sudden shift of tone and topic, and try to catch her eyes, but she looks over her shoulder. I give up for the moment.
“The roast should be done in three hours or so, but I need to baste it in one, and again after two,” I say, looking past her at the clock. It’s still somewhat early, though the sun has long since past the peak. Shadows stretch far outside our curtained windows, those on the south of the apartment brighter than the west. The roast will be done after the sun goes down, and dinner…
The candle holder from Rarity I found sits out on the counter, part of a twin set. I wonder, briefly where the other is. But a single candle for dinner, the smoky reflection in her eyes… Something passes in her eyes then, and the ember of her gaze isn’t an imaginary thing anymore.
Her hand touches my cheek, setting a fire I know she can see. She kisses it, kindling it further. Almost, I lose myself to that fire, but I draw back from her for a moment, recalling dinner once more.
“B-but the potatoes and the rice need to be set to steaming forty minutes b-before…”
Dinner is driven clear of my thoughts as she kisses my neck and draws away again.
“Mmm.” Rainbow has that sly look in her eyes: hooded so that her magenta irises appear almost purple, one eyebrow raised. And that smile. My stomach flutters at that curve of lip, the slight show of white. “Just enough time,” she whispers, one hand drifting across my stomach, disturbing the butterflies and sending a thrill into my chest.
“Enough time for what?” I know what. Just as I know that her legs are freshly shaven, as are other parts of her. Just like I know the callouses on her hands from working out will be softer today because she’s using my scent-free lotion, and her fingernails trimmed, buffed, and smooth, free of polish. Just like mine.
She does not answer. I know she sees the answer in my eyes, a smoldering reflection of hers and the heat simmering inside me.
I smell her hair again as she trails kisses down my neck, each one a tiny spark. My hands trail up her sides, drawing her jersey top up, let the satin fabric fall over my hands. Her skin, so warm against my fingers, shivers at my touch. She’s ticklish, I know, and if I touch her right… there…
She gasps, lifting her head from my shoulder, half slipped free of my too-baggy sweater. “Hey, no fair!”
Then her lips are on mine, hot breath passing over my face. She hasn’t brushed, and the spicy tang of her breath sours the mood. I push her away, frowning.
“Rainbow Dash, what have I said about brushing your teeth before sex? Especially after eating something spicy!”
“What? No! I did brush my teeth! Twice!” She opens wide and shows me her tongue, pink as can be, but that spicy smell remains. “Thee? It’s not something spicy, I swear! It’s that damn sports drink—the one Thunderlane gave me!”
I put a hand against her mouth, shaking my head. “Okay. Okay. I’m sorry. But no spices either. After last time, I don’t want to itch like that ever again.”
“Don’t remind me,” she murmurs. “I still feel horrible about that, ‘Shy. I had no idea what to do. I’m glad you did.” Her grin comes back, wry and waning as soon as it appeared. “None of Applejack’s Five Alarm Applesauce ever again. I’m sorry. You know I would never do that to you again.” Her hand comes up to brush my cheek, and she pulls me in closer. “I checked the drink’s website and it says the effects can be counteracted by mint. Why do you think I was shuffling around in the drawers?”
“Ah.” Things start making sense again. “The gum.”
“Yeah.”
“Gum that had the same methyl and ethyl salts as your toothpaste. We could have bought actual mint on the way home,” I point out gently. “The grocer was just a little detour, and we could have picked up a fresh sprig. Or…” I shrug.
“I didn’t know mint was the cure, then. I only had a chance to look it up when I got home and the tingle still hadn’t faded.” She clucks her tongue at me. “Besides, I was distracted. You were blushing the whole way home.”
So she had noticed. My cheeks heat again. Had she known why? My mind travels along that path for a moment, my cheeks heating more and more as I imagine her noticing, then drawing me away to slide a hand up, or down. The first sends prickles along my spine, the last stirring the heat within to new heights. She would have teased me, nothing overt in public, but the feel of her fingers in places she’s knows…
Rainbow chuckles, breaking the daydream.
“Just like that. Anyway… I thought maybe we had something that would work, or some mint leaves. Or something. If we didn’t, I wasn’t going to go down on you, I swear.” Her cheeks color and she ducks aside. “I’d never do that to you again,” she repeats, more softly.
I know she’s telling the truth, but she’s a fervent lover, and she might have lost herself in the moment. Even so, it’s hard to maintain the frown. I stop trying and let it slip. “What happened?”
For a long moment, she says nothing. She turns away to drop into the springy cushion of our loveseat, slumping to rest her head on her bicep, half covering her eyes. I stoop down by the arm, then kneel and pull her hand into both of mine, placing a kiss on her fingers.
She looks up at me, smiles, and kisses my wrist. “Thunderlane gave me a bottle of what he said was this new sports drink to try. And, hey, rainbow colored, right?” She shakes her head, sending her wild mane dancing. “I tried some. It was great at first, but after about the third swallow, that spice hit me. I was in the sink, gagging.”
“That sounds rather mean. I thought you two were friends.”
“We are, and he did hold my hair back while I retched it back up. I don’t think he meant it to be that bad. We’ve just got this prank war going, and I try to keep you out of it, just like I don’t involve his girlfriend, Flitter.” She rolls her shoulders, sinking down onto the chair’s arm more thoroughly, chin braced on her forearm. “I mean, it’s mostly just locker room BSing around.”
She’s tense, and her biceps are flexing as she works some of it out. Her shoulders slump, her head lolls down and I lean forward to press a kiss between her shoulderblades.
I stand and move behind the couch, stroking my fingers over her shoulders, pressing down into firm muscle that resists the soothing. I shush her tension with a whisper in her ear, and she relaxes a trifle.
“It sounds like a little more than BSing around if it was that bad.”
“He got a little carried away, but it’s not a big deal. We called a truce.” Her shrug briefly brings the knots back into sharp relief. My hands continue drifting along the muscles in her shoulders, working my fingers into the tension, working it into putty, pressing, kneading and smoothing it away, just as I have a thousand times before. She relaxes by degrees, until she slumps over the arm of our loveseat, hair spilling down the side like a glorious waterfall.
I step to the side briefly, lean down to pull her chin up, meet her eyes and plant a soft kiss on her lips, touching my tongue to them, and drew back. It’s not a sharp spice, and my lips don’t burn, but my nethers itch for just a moment from the memory of the last time.
“You really wanted tonight to be super-special, didn’t you?”
“Of course!” She pecks a kiss again on my lips, her smile coming back, waning too quickly. “It was all going to be perfect, and everything was. It was a quiet day together, just like you like, and then the dinner, and…” She sighs.
“Making love before dinner?”
“Well, maybe. Or after. Both. I wanted… I dunno. I just wanted to make it feel really special for you, especially after you went out of your way to make the track meet in Manehattan. I mean, seriously, I can’t think how you could have made that any more special. My shy girlfriend right there in the front row stands, cheering her heart out just for me, and you had to miss the Los Pegasus dog show to be there, remember? You were so excited about it, and then Los Pegasus Collegiate dropped out, and we had that massive schedule change.”
“I remember,” I say. Her shoulders bunch up again before I tap her nose. “I remember that I wanted to spend the weekend with you.”
“And all I had to do today was not mess things up. I should have checked the website right there at school. I should have told you right away. I screwed up, Fluttershy.”
She deflates like a balloon with a loose string, hanging limply off the loveseat’s arm, eyes closed. I’ve seen that look before.
“No.” I kiss the back of her neck and lift her chin to kiss her again, lingering on her lips, kissing the point of her nose, her cheeks and her chin. “No, Dashie, you haven’t screwed up. Let me take care of you tonight.”
I step away from her side, my hands never leaving her, letting her know to her core that I’m still there, and begin kneading her back again, more thoroughly this time, smoothing away the knots when I find them and trailing my fingers along her neck in between. Her posture loosens slowly.
She doesn’t protest, nor does she move from her place, body stretched out, knees bent slightly. Were I less aware of her body and all of the intimate subtleties of her moods, I would have still thought her sulking in her despair.
But this is a different slump, a relaxed, lazily eager slouch, like a cat stretching in the sun. I shift my weight against her, leaning forward to press my nose into her hair, breathing in her scent until I can smell the rising aroma of her, and I feel the answering heat flutter again in my stomach. I want it as much as she, I always do when I’m alone with her, and she knows it. She knows me so well…
But I know her, too.
I pull her jersey up, sliding it over her smoothly muscled back, a runner’s physique from waist to shoulder, and draw my smooth-nailed fingers down her back, feeling the ripple of muscle as she arches into the slow, steady touch. I frown at the too-tight strap of her bra, but keep back my comment. She shudders under my touch, stifles a whimper as my fingers cross over a knot of muscle in her lower back. I pause to ease it, and she groans her languid pleasure.
She’s been working at weights again. I tell her so.
“Yeah. It’s for… well…” I can feel her blush growing under my hands. “I love you, Fluttershy.”
“I love you, too,” I whisper, leaning forward to lick her ear with the words first, then my tongue. She quivers, tensing, and relaxes finally. It’s the sign I’ve been waiting for, knowing she’s ready to let go. “Scoot over, lovergirl!” I put a rolling purr into the last word, giggling at my own directness.
For a moment, she lays still, and I fear for a moment that I have ruined the mood, but she pushes herself up, stretching like a cat, reaching up to kiss the point of my chin before relaxing back into the loveseat’s plush comfort.
Her cheeks are bright red as I lean down to kiss her forehead, her cheek, and sidle around to press another against the point of her chin. It’s not all from hanging near upside down over the loveseat’s arm. She shifts, adopting a spread-legged slouching posture, one arm flung out stretched over the back cushion as if inviting me, the other…
I shudder as it drifts over her thigh, drawing up her shorts to bare her muscular inner thigh, then smooths it back down. “You are so…” I shudder, the tracery of her finger up her thigh finding an echo over my own.
Her grin widens. “Hot? Awesome?” She trails a finger over material so pliant I can almost make out the definition of her muscles through it. I close my eyes for just an instant, shuddering as another wave of giddiness scampers up my stomach. “Sexy?”
When I open them again her fingers are splayed out, spreading the light blue fabric taut to her loins. A spreading, irregular stain of dark blue seeps into the cloth between the spread, soft mounds of her covered labia. Her fingers move slowly back and forth over the stain, spreading it as she watches me.
I can’t help but shudder and think of other times I have watched her masturbate, thinking me asleep, and all the times she’s masturbated in my full view, knowing I was watching her, languishing in showing off how hard she could drive herself for me, how much she wished I would join her, and driving herself even more when I finally did start exploring myself in front of her. And, later, all the times we helped each other, not yet calling it sex in our shared dorm room.
And after we moved in together for our junior year in college, leaving the dorms and finding our own apartment, we started calling it sex. She reveled in our nights together, whether we were tangled together or apart and teasing each other to greater pleasures by sight and sound. After that, we gave up the illusion that we had ever had separate beds in the dorm.
I remember, too, all the times I masturbated at her urging, while she massaged my neck or back, encouraging me to explore, each time growing bolder with myself and finding new ways to tease her. Glimpses, moments, and memories come rushing through my head, and the heat in my belly trebles.
“Mmm…” She is still watching me, and has one leg spread wide, stretching the smooth, silken fabric taut against her groin in between brief moments of plunging the fabric shallowly into herself, then pressing it even more tightly to show off the minute tenting of her clitoris.
It’s hard to draw my eyes away as she trails a finger over a darker shadow in the fabric, over the center of the stain, but I do, and I realize my hands are pressed to my stomach.
I want her so badly then, but I force myself to slowness, and calm.
There must have been something in my look, because she stopped, closed her legs, and sat up. “‘Shy? You okay?”
I am there before she finishes, pressing my mouth to her throat, kissing her, licking her neck, my hands planted to the sides of her hips. I draw back an instant later, flushed, and licking my lips, then stare at hers, what had been my target before I remembered the spicy taste at the last moment. I shudder as the moment of decision catches up with me.
“Whoa there, vamp girl.” She snickers. “Gotta warn me before you go for the throat like that.” Her hands lift my sweatshirt, bringing it up to cover my eyes, and she kisses my throat, too, her tongue a line of heat that leaves me shivering as the cooler air sends a prickle up my spine.
She tugs the sweatshirt off one arm at a time, kissing my neck and my shoulders between urging me up long enough to free one. She leaves it around my neck for a longer moment, and rises up through the bottom to kiss me in the darkness, both of us fumbling and giggling at our shared, darkness granted ineptitude.
Her hands find my breasts in that blind moment, her fumbling explorations and proddings tickling over my flesh before coming to rest.
“Wow…” She murmurs, both hands sliding to one breast, hefting it as a worshipper might offer up a gift. “You’ve lost a little weight.”
“Our morning runs are paying off, then,” I whisper back, still in darkness. “And I might not have your wild metabolism, but running as often as I do with you…”
“You’re beautiful.” She pats the breast lightly with one hand, squeezing with the other and trapping my nipple in the crease of her palm. “Like a succulent, soft, squishy, um…” She pats my breast again, giggling at the flat, splat sound. “You’re ripe.”
“Could you please not pretend my breasts are watermelons? I’m not that big.” I stretch and pull away, drawing the sweatshirt the rest of the way over my head. “And I sound nothing like a ripe watermelon.”
“Nope! You’re more of a cantaloupe.” Pat. “A big cantaloupe.” She grins up at me, her hands still cupping my breast. Pat, squeeze. “Or a small watermelon. But oh, so much more succulent.”
I laugh with her as she lets go, imparting a sway with one final swat. With one hand, I shuffle her legs closed, and plant one knee on either side of hers, bracing myself on her shoulders, holding us apart for just long enough to find my balance there, perched on the edge of the cushion.
She waits, hands on my hips, and pauses, flicking a look between my stiffening nipple and my eyes.
She wants to, and so do I. My hands on her shoulders pull her closer as I nod. The delicate balance holds as she scoots back and I shuffle forward, straddling her thighs. Then her hand finds my breast again, and lowers her head to press her mouth into my flesh.
Wet and warm, strong and supple at the same time, she teases me. Flick, lick. Bite, release, and a slow, slow indrawn breath as she seals her lips over my dark pink areola. She stays there, breathing in slowly, suckling firm, my teat caught in her teeth, squeezing lightly, her hand pressing up, kneading into me.
My breathing quickens, stuttering with each long draw, and her unoccupied hand teases me further with a trail along my waist, not so firm as hers, and down my hip. I watch her, attention rapt, as her eyes close and she settles into a slow rhythm.
Knead and suckle, bite and draw. I shudder and press closer until I am resting forehead to forehead with her. Her breathe comes evenly, mine raggedly. Her eyes twinkle as she winks, and she lets go with her mouth, shifting her hands to cover both of my nipples with her thumbs, and leans back to look up at me, quiet for a long, long moment. I feel none of the burn I’d expected. Maybe, after so long of her suckling at my breasts, I’ve grown accustomed. Or… I push the thought aside. Breasts are not as sensitive as my sex.
“No bra?” She asks the needless question after a long, breathless moment, my wet nipple erect under her thumb as she flicks it back and forth slowly. Her other thumb seems content to merely massage and press its prize into a dimple, only to have it pop free again. “Were you wearing one when we went out to see the parade?”
Mutely, I shake my head. It is the second wildest thing I have ever done, and just remembering the feel of the chill air only a shirt and a sweater away from touching my skin directly… I shudder, heat racing through my loins and up my stomach.
“I felt naked the entire time,” I admit. Something in my words makes her shiver and arch her back. I remember the moment we kissed in the start of a new snowfall, with her hand on my back, her other against my cheek. Something about that memory… Had I known about the spice then, but ignored it for my own fears and desires?
“No, no bra,” I manage after a long moment. Her fingers melt away the remembered chill, and her tongue bathes the dry nipple, sending another shiver down my spine. “A-and—” I cast my gaze down to where my buttery yellow pajama bottoms are acquiring a new, golden darkness at the crotch, spreading slowly.
“No way! You did it? No panties?”
I nod, feeling the heat surging in my loins. That was the wildest thing I had even contemplated, let alone done. “I didn’t like it, though. My jeans were too rough, and it was too cold out.”
“‘Shy, Shy, Shy.” She sighs. “You don’t wear jeans when you go commando. No wonder you were hopping like a frog to get home. I told you this, like… wait, no. Uh…” She shrugs, giving me that winning smile of hers from between my breasts. She kisses one, then my nose. “I, uh… I guess I didn’t tell you what you should wear. But, unless they’re special jeans, the seams are just in, well, the wrong place all the time.”
“But you go commando all the time!”
“Yeah. Around the house.” Her hands slide back to my hips, and she slowly pulls my pajama bottoms down to my knees, fingers caressing every inch of my rear, stroking and kneading my thighs as I awkwardly kick them off. “Where I can wear my jersey shorts. Or with taped seams. Satin fabric tape. Rarity taught me that one. I don’t think she intended that I should use it for that, though.”
“Oh.”
“Or when I’m wearing your bottoms.”
She smirks at me, and I know at that moment that she was wearing my bottoms last night, when she masturbated herself to sleep. No wonder they hadn’t been in the hamper in the morning.
The moment she must have done it plays back in my memory. She had slipped off and come back, kissing me briefly on the lips. To get a drink of water, I thought at the time.
I had feigned sleep, but I think she knew then, and that knowing grin says she knows now, that I had been awake, listening to her huff, feeling the bed shift under us, and then the quivering tension of her back against mine and, most telling, the musky smell of sex rising from underneath the covers: adrenaline, raw desire, and an indefinable silken tang, sharper in the cool night. I don’t know if she knew I had done the same some minutes later.
Her widening grin says she did, and that she has been following the train of my thoughts all the way through. Maybe it’s something in the way I stand, or the way she can feel my buttocks clench at the memory.
I push her away gently, trailing a kiss down her forehead to her nose, and stand, arching my back and massage away the small knot growing in my lower back.
“We can lay down if you want,” she offers, sitting up and stroking her hands down my bare hips. “The loveseat… Not the, er, most comfortable place to make love.”
I shake my head slightly, offering a grin. “No, no. It’s fine. We’ve never made love on the loveseat.”
She laughs. “Yeah. We should try it at least once. Be a shame if we didn’t find out if that wink meant something.”
It was a gift from Twilight, I recall, when she moved out of the dorms last semester and had no use for a lounging loveseat for reading anymore. Not after she got her couch. “You don’t think she and Sunset ever… you know?”
“Her? Nah.” Rainbow tossed the idea off with a flick of her fingers. “She’s pretty vanilla, the way Sunset tells it.”
I lower my eyes at her distraction to study the heap of my fleece bottoms, feeling as though my cheeks must burst into flame. I think I can see the darker gold stain where she must have came. Or that’s my fresh stain. I brush a toe over the spot, feel the dampness, and shudder.
“D-did you—” I don’t need confirmation. I know. I hesitate, toe the crotch again, and shuffle them away with a light kick. Her crotch is still slick and wet when I look up, and I touch a finger to the center of that stain, linger long enough to see her rock her hips into the light touch, and bring the tip of my finger to tap her nose. “You masturbated last night.”
“Yep!” Her grin spreads and she frees a hand from my rear to brush and comb wild, pink pouf of my bush. “And so did you. Were you wearing panties then?”
“N-no.”
“PJs?”
“I couldn’t find mine, and yours were in the washer.”
“That explains the wet spot on the covers, then.” One finger touches the apex of my slit, spreading my lips and teasing past the pouf of hair to stroke along the hood of my stiff clitoris. She grins at my shudder and draws her hand back to comb through the coarse tangle again. “I thought maybe I had dribbled a little more than usual.”
“And you? Were you wearing panties?”
Rainbow raises an eyebrow. “Me? Psh. I was naked except for your PJs.”
I haven’t had a chance to wash them yet. I want to tell her not to do that anymore, but her hands on my hips drive the thought free. There would be time later to remind her how laundry works, they say, and I listen.
She urges my legs to part with a twiddle of her fingers. I do more than that, sliding my feet apart until I’m almost level with her, only my quivering legs and my hands braced against the cushion holding me aloft.
The cool air is a shock, after the warm confines of my bottoms and the even warmer space between my thighs. I watch, blushing furiously, with Rainbow’s cheek against mine as a drop of my arousal plops unceremoniously into the rug.
“Mhmmm,” she purrs in my ear. She nips at my shoulder briefly, and her fingers are there between my legs before I can gasp.
A gentle stroke over the matted tangle of pink, drawing a line to part my lips and reveal me to her touch. Her middle finger slides into me, and her palm briefly cups the whole of my mound.
My legs shake, my buttocks clench, and she withdraws, leaving my knees shaking even more. Then two fingers, and a third. Heat spreads from the thrust, and I press myself into her shoulder, catching her jersey between my teeth, huffing.
Then she draws back, pushing me back up with a gentle, open-palmed nudge.
“You okay?”
“Y-yes. I’ve never felt…” A shudder passes through me, trailing into a shiver down my back. “I’ve never felt that tight before.”
“You’ve never done the splits before while having sex, either. You’re just a bit too tense, but stars, that opens you up something…” She raises her slick fingers to her mouth, tongue out, and freezes, eyes wide and staring at them, then at me. I can see her thoughts. If she cleans her fingers, she can’t use that hand.
I shake my head and lean forward, touching my tongue to her outstretched fingers. I watch as her eyes widen, flick to her fingers, and then back to me. She swallows, then I do.
Salty.
Musky.
A slight sweetness, just under the surface.
Not an unpleasant taste. I wonder if she’s tasted that every time she’s gone down on me, if she loves my scent as I do her muskier one. A bob, my lips touching her joints, smearing my dew up to my nose, and I take her fingers into my mouth. She strokes my tongue lightly, and the roof of my mouth, twiddling her fingers as she would inside my vagina.
It is a strangely intimate feeling as I lean back, her fingers trailing down my chin. She swallows again, eyes wide, staring at me. I watch her throat bob once more, and lean forward to kiss her throat again.
A sudden tickle in my throat. I cough, sputter, and cluck my tongue. A single pubic hair is stuck there. My efforts, a roll of the tongue, a crack of the jaw, and working my lips to try and get it up past where I won’t gag myself reaching for it send Rainbow into a giggling fit.
“It’s tickling my throat.”
“S-sorry,” she claps a hand over her mouth. “Now you know what I go through when I go down on you, ‘Shy.”
I realize, with my own pubic hair down my throat, that maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to listen to her teasing suggestions to shave between my legs and give her as bald a mound to tease as she gives me. Maybe. Once in a while. I cough, feel it slide away from my tongue again. Maybe more than once in a while.
My tongue flexes, and I work my jaw trying to wipe the hair off on my teeth. She giggles more and more, but she bites her lip over a snorted half-laugh. “Goodness, ‘Shy. You are so adorable right now. You don’t even know.”
I’m tempted to ask her immediately, in spite of the complaints I listen to for weeks after she stops shaving. I sputter, not at her words, but trying to get the hair off my tongue, still, somehow having gotten underneath it and lodged in my lower teeth. With a sigh and a last sputter, I wipe my hair back from my face and look at her.
“Rainbow… After tonight, can you help me shave?”
She starts to giggle again.
“I’m being serious.”
“Really? But I love your cotton candy patch.”
I nod. “I want to at least give it a try.”
She does not answer for a long moment, her eyes darting between mine. She taps my chin. “Open wide, okay. I’ll help you get it out.”
In moments, she has it out. “Stuck behind your molar. You were never going to get it out on your own without gagging.” She plants the wiry pink hair on my chin, and grins, holding it there.
I shudder, feeling a tickle wending its way down my leg, cooling as it goes. Rainbow tears her eyes from mine, but does not withdraw her fingers from my chin. She clears her throat, startling, and glances down. I don’t need to look to know that I’m dribbling again. The single dollop trailing down my thigh pauses, and she swallows. Another tickle, and the chilly trail wends its way down to my ankle.
“Oh stars, Shy. That is so hot.” She licks her lips, eyes dancing between my eyes and my spread legs. “O-of course I’ll help. When? Now?”
I can almost see the gears churning away in her head. ‘If I stay away from her sex, I could lick clean her legs.’
“Not now,” I tell her gently and pluck the hair from my chin to wipe it on her jersey, between her breasts.
“That,” she says, “is not so hot.” She laughs, pushing herself up and drawing me up with her, whirls, and sets me on my feet.
“You’ll love it, I promise. When you first have that bald p—” She blushes, coughs. “When you first shave, and put on your first pair of panties over your bald lips… oh, ‘Shy!” She kisses me again and pushes me lightly into the couch. “You have no idea.”
I cover my crotch as I bounce, but my eyes stray back to the string of curly pink just over her right breast, one end curled around the slight bump of her erect nipple. I look at one hand, curling my finger briefly. Had I felt it when I brushed the hair off?
She’s still watching me, hands on hips, waiting. It’s our parity. She or I start, and I or she finishes. She arches an eyebrow, looks down, and blows off the hair with a puff of breath.
I reach out to her, tug on her hand lightly, and bring her to straddle my knee. She grins, grinding her pelvis against my thigh and plants her hands on either side of me on the back of the couch. Her scent fills my nose again, spicy breath, and the softer, feminine scents from her shower as she ducks down to pull me into a deep kiss.
I don’t resist. I never could when she had that look in her eyes, that tender fire she coaxes into flaring, forge-fire hot, in me with the same, effortless joy she puts into everything she does. Her tongue brushes my lips as we meet, then my teeth as I part them, and my tongue as I meet hers. I rise up, bracing myself with elbows against the loveseat's back, and push into it.
For several breathless moments, she holds me there, locked with only our breath to hold us, and then lets me go. Her eyes are hooded, magenta furnaces.
“Rainbow,” I murmur, my heart racing, my breath shallow. I find myself not caring if her tongue will burn and itch, or if I will feel it later, and I push aside that rising lust. “I’m still not going to let you down there.” There’s that tingle in my mouth, just a little hint of what must have been a truly awful prank. I pucker my lips and stick out my tongue. “And now I can’t for you, either.”
She laughs with me and presses her lips to my forehead. “I know, but now we’re even. Plus, I just wanted to kiss you.” Her eyes dip, and a hand follows to stroke over the outside curve of my breast. She cups it, ducks her head to lay a kiss over my erect nipple, and takes it with a nip and a suckle.
The spice on her breath does not seem to touch my flesh, nor did it earlier, and perhaps it wouldn’t if I let her—
I steer my thoughts away—again. My nipple is not my clitoris, or the delicate, pH sensitive flesh between my labia.
I struggle to sit up, one hand against the back of her head, holding her in place, the other drifting down her back. She’s wearing a bra, one of her slim-line sports bras with entirely too little room for me, and barely enough for her. I guide her back to one knee in front of me and kiss the top of her head.
It is an odd feeling to have her suckling at my breast while I stare down her back, but it feels wonderful. But, I think, she is still clothed. I don’t want to interrupt her. Sometimes she draws milk, most times not, but she always tries, and she’s learned from experience what works best.
With the intent in mind of solving the problem of our disproportionate dress, I lift a foot to stroke along the outside of her thigh and hunch slightly forward. She follows, apparently oblivious, but I can feel her smiling, and her hand is trailing down my buttock, over the crevasse, and dips down.
My toes touch the bottom edge of her jersey shorts, barely twiddle it, and then I get my big toe in between her thigh and the cloth, and tug.
“You could help, you know,” I mutter into her hair.
In response, she squeezes my breast and buttock both, and mumbles something unintelligible around my nipple between her teeth. The buzz of her voice on my flesh sparks new pleasure and I lose my grip on her shorts.
I stop trying, and feel something let go, just the tiniest release of a pressure I hadn’t been aware of until it was gone, and my nipples tingle, ache, and Rainbow Dash hums a soft, pleased note. I know that she will mumble more often into my chest in her quest for milk.
Shivers pass over me while she suckles, and her hand on my rear grips and kneads just as her hand on my breast does, and I do nothing but hold her close while she stokes my desire for more with each pull, each squeeze, and every tiny swallow.
I let her, holding her close, feeling the heat in my loins grow and grow. Her hand behind strokes over the curve of my buttock over and over, sometimes trailing up, sometimes down, sliding into the crevasse, tickling, teasing, and making me hope she will try something I have wanted, but feared asking.
Instead, her hand stops well shy and drifts back up to hold me close. It’s more than okay, and what I want is nothing more than an oddity.
But there is nothing like the feeling of letting her drink of me. I kiss her hair over and over again, murmuring nothings to her, trail my fingers down the side of her neck, tracing the tendons as she swallows, tracing her collarbone as her embrace tightens with every slow pull.
And the sound: moist and sharp in the near silence, with only the distant burble of dinner in the oven to contrast with it.
“It would be really, really nice if you let me take off your clothes. Please?”
Finally, she lets go. “Since you asked nicely…” She leans back to look at my cherry red nipple and reaches a finger up to brush away a slow trickle of translucent white wending its way along the path her tongue took minutes earlier. She doesn’t bring the white to her lips, but to mine.
I hesitate, feeling my cheeks heat, then lean forward and touch my tongue to it, then take her finger into my mouth wholly. I am loathe to admit that my milk is not very sweet, and somewhat watery.
But the look in her eyes as I suckle at her finger tells me she doesn’t care if it’s not perfect.
She draws her finger free, trailing it down my chin, and I follow her for another, briefer, kiss. My milk is stronger on her tongue than the spice. I remember reading somewhere that lactose can mitigate the spiciness of certain foods, but can’t remember if it was proven true or not.
The kiss parts, and she draws away.
“Best milk I’ve ever had,” she says.
“Clothes?” I suggest, dropping my hands to her sides and stroking at her skin through the thin, soft material of the shirt.
“Yes, clothes,” she agrees, and lifts her arms while I draw the garment up, over her head, and past her arms. She has a runner’s build, neither muscular nor skinny, but lean like a cat might be, grace and power in a contained package. Her abdomen is defined, but not as though the muscle lines had been drawn on with a stencil. More like a painter’s suggestion of shadowy latticework.
I was right about suspecting her bra, and I tug it off in the same motion, freeing what many would consider an over-ample bosom for an athlete. Maybe that’s why she wears such restrictive garments, as a price for being seen always as what she knows she is.
“You shouldn’t wear such tight bras,” I tell her as I slide my hands back down her now bare arms. She stands, clamping her arms down before I can tickle her again, and I let my hands trail down her chest until I press my palms against the gravid, soft underside of her breasts, taut nipples pressed between my fingers.
“I don’t like my boobs.” Her hands cover mine, squeeze lightly, and let go. She blushes as I slide my hands up to stroke over the silken soft flesh, high enough to feel the muscle underneath, and slip my arms around her back. “The tight bras help me hide them.”
“And they damage your breast tissue, too, by restricting circulation.” It’s an old argument, and one I have never won. But I will, someday. “Your breasts are beautiful, Rainbow Dash, and I love them. You should, too.”
She makes a noise which might have been dismissal or agreement, and strokes her fingers through my hair. She doesn’t take her eyes from mine, and her lips curl into a smile as I continue stroking her breasts up, around to trail down the sides, and cup them again in my palms like a living bra.
“You know.” She grins, apparently leaping onto the same thought. “If I could, I’d love to have your hands as my bra. Perfect support, supple. Warm. Just missing one thing, though.” She purses her lips.
I don’t hesitate, and press my lips to her left nipple, sliding a hand around to squeeze and knead as I have seen calves do to their mother’s teats. Pushing, drawing in her nipple with a flick of my tongue and a slow, indrawn breath. Hold, exhale warm breath around it with my teeth still locked lightly over her flesh. That first repetition, she shudders, her fingers tightening in my hair, pulling me closer. She relaxes, then, and I watch her expression slacken, lips parting and brow smoothing in blissful repose.
I repeat, less ardently, over and over in a slow wave of constant motion, always firm but never rough.
Flick.
Suckle.
Breathe.
Teeth, ever so gentle as I bite, holding her nipple in place for the next.
Fingers, massaging deep and firm, stimulating glands that might hold some milk.
Her eyes start to close, and she rocks against me in the same rhythm, fingers in my hair clenching and unclenching, sliding down to caress my bare shoulders, back up, my hair spilling down my back again, tickling, doubling the caress.
Flick the nipple, suckle the teat, pinch ever so lightly. Draw in, relax.
Exhale.
Her head lolls back, then forward, pressing her lips firmly into my hair, her back arching away from me. She shudders at my every touch, her breath hot in my hair, arms tightening, hands stroking over my shoulders and down my back. I can feel her heartbeat racing under my lips and fingers, and do not let go or relent. I want her to feel as I do when she suckles at my breast.
My free hand seeks the waistline of her shorts and draws them down in the same, slow motion, baring her rear to the air a little at a time as I rock them back and forth—drawing this end down, then that, stopping when they are at her thighs. Like my pajama bottoms, they crumple down around her feet, releasing her faint, musky aroma more thickly into the air.
I stop my suckling. I am almost disappointed to see nothing but my own saliva coating her breast. No trickle of white on blue. I look up, Her eyes are closed for just a moment, mouth parted, tongue touching her lips, and her breath comes shuddering pants.
She blinks and looks down at me. “Why’d you stop? T-that… that was amazing.”
I stretch my neck up for a kiss and, at the same moment her lips touch mine, I slide my fingers along her inner thigh, brushing over the smooth, bald lips of her sex. She shudders into the kiss, one knee shaking against mine. The kiss lingers, her breath gusting out over my nose, and her hips thrust forward, pressing against my fingers, my palm, and grinds the hard nub of her clit against my wrist.
She bobs down, legs shaking, and I pull her closer, harder into my mouth as she bends over me, her fervent breath filling my nose with the spicy tang in heavy, gasping breaths.
She shudders, her arms locking around me, fingers digging into my shoulders, and I hold my arm still as she bucks once, then again, and once more, each thrust accompanied by a grunt and a heaving sigh.
A trickle of damp touches my palm, and she almost relaxes into me.
The kiss parts.
I slip my arm back to cup the whole of my hand against her sex, finger and thumb pressing in over her outer lips. I latch onto her breast again, my own heart thudding in my chest as hers is against my lips and hand.
She throws her head back, arching her back as she grinds one more time into the crease of my palm, thrusting her breast into my face.
One finger slips inside her, then two, and I curl my fingers together in a single, smooth motion as her slit pulses tighter, relaxing to let me slip deeper, and tightening wet heat around my fingers as I do.
She bucks in my grip, my one arm locked up over her shoulder, gripping her, pulling her down into my hand against the strain of her legs to rise up. Her hands press down on my shoulders, fingers locked tight as though straining to get away, but I do not relent, nor does she do more than press herself closer to me.
Thrust, curl, squeeze, suckle. A simple four part harmony, repeating faster and faster, my fingers and palm aching with the effort of keeping it up, my own deep lust for more burning up thought and strain both.
A firm, deep, smooth motion, fingers sliding in past soft folds. Feel her body respond, squeeze, suckle at my fingers. Her sharply drawn breath held in.
Curl my fingers inside her, stroking her straining walls. A smoother motion: tightening, tightening, relaxing. Her body rocks with the motion, dipping to keep my fingers inside as they slip out, releasing her breath in a heated moan, lust and fire combining to demand more. And I give it, my own lust to hear her, feel her come rises like an desperate fire only her orgasm can quench.
I squeeze, trapping her clitoris in the crease of my palm, slide the hood back. She gasps, shuddering. Down again, slipping her clitoris back into hiding. She relaxes ever so slightly, and I begin the tempo again.
I suckle at her breast throughout, lips parted to take in her nipple, teeth brushing against its hardness, drawing back, never closing. The rush of her heartbeat is faint against my tongue, heavier around my fingers.
Her shuddering gasp is all I hear as I feel her climax approach, the contractions tighter, her body taut, her aroma rising up to wash over me. I stop suckling, fearing that I will bite unintentionally, and press my cheek there instead, my saliva cool against my ear, her heartbeat sounding as a steady, rushing drum through the satiny flesh of her breast.
Her thighs lock like two pillars of stone over my hand, locking my fingers at their deepest thrust into her, as she utters a single, gasping, drawn out vowel. Her vagina quivers as warm heat trickles over my fingers and into my cupped palm.
I hold her tight and close, my arm falling to her waist as I pull her closer to me, almost wishing to merge with her and ride the shuddering edge of pleasure. But our bodies remain joined only by the thread of my two fingers curling inside her, firm and slow, stoking her orgasm to its end.
She relaxes suddenly, shaking and panting, into me. She lands a kiss sloppily on my lips, her smile a dreamy thing, her eyes lidded as she stares into mine, the fires of her passion dimming as mine subsides next to it. She does not speak as she plants another kiss on my lips, and neither do I.
I let her bear me down onto the loveseat, still cupping the twitching wet mess of her sex, fingers inside her twitching along with the aftershocks of her climax, and slip my other arm down around her waist to guide both of us to lay down. My nose presses into the smooth muscle of her shoulder, taking in the natural, honest musk of her exertion while she kisses and sighs into my ear.
We lay like that, wordless, until I feel the heat and damp of her coming along my wrist start to cool in the air. I am reluctant, still, to let her go, but she moves first.
“Sweet stars…” she murmurs as she draws my fingers free of her at last, her knees shaking as she does so, and rises to a stoop above me.
I trail a hand along the side of her gravid breast and let it flop beside me. I really do love her breasts. Maybe I can get her to wear one of my bras some time. She kisses me again, her eyes shining like banked magenta coals, ready to be lit again, but only settling into a smolder for now.
“Love you,” I murmur, meeting the kiss a moment later.
“Mmm… Me too.”
She shoves my legs aside and plops down onto the loveseat beside me, her breathing still shallow, but slowing.
The jolt as she lands stirs my mind back into motion. I glance at her wet, smooth mound, then at the couch between her widely spread legs. The skin between her blue labia is as pink and flushed as mine, and stands out against the light purple couch.
I stare at the space between her legs, watching a slow trickle of her dew stain the light purple into the darker shades of Twilight’s hair. The thought makes me blush furiously, and I lift my gaze to give Rainbow a meaningful look and show her my hand, also shaking.
The mess on my hand has left a similarly dark stain where it had lain. I can barely feel my palm, and I let it flop down to lay between us. “That’s going to make a mess. Is making a mess,” I correct myself, connecting thought to reason, and action to consequence. “Maybe loveseats aren’t for making love.”
She giggles, sighs, and flops an arm over my lap. “Yeah, yeah… covers come off. Wash em later.” She waggles a hand at me and lays her head back into the cushion. Her other hand slips from my lap to twine her fingers into mine, not hesitating in spite of the mess and musk.
I sit up beside her, realizing that I, too, am leaving a mess under my rear, and had made a mess of the cushion long before she did. I tell her as much.
“Feh. Washable is washable… ‘Sides. You smell good.” She lifts my hand, sniffs it, and grins. “That’s more me, than you. But yeah… delicious.”
She looks at me, at my hand, and lifts it as a marionettist would, guiding my limp hand down between my thighs with her fingers for strings. With the care of a master, she positions my fingers just so, two sliding into me, then out, drawing free a fresh, shining dribble of musky dew. It feels like her fingers instead of mine, and the heat in my loins flares as they twitch in a not-quite reflexive curl to brush against the trembling stiffness of my clit, passing through the rough curl of pubic hair and free.
I grumble briefly, my eyes closing until she kisses my cheek.
“And now, it’s a nice mixture of us,” she says when she finishes. “I suppose we had better get up, then.” She kisses my palm and licks clean a patch of skin to kiss again, heedless of the trails of wet trailing from her brow to temple, tangling in a strand of her hair.
I draw my hand free and caress her cheek, leaving a streak trailing down from ear to chin, following the line of her jaw, then dropping down to flop against her chest, covering her breast with our mixed juice. “You first.”
She moves only to draw my hand down to clasp between us on the loveseat.
The kitchen timer beeps, and I realize that I had closed my eyes. A quick look at Rainbow tells me she is on the edge of dozing as well, a beatific smile curling her lips as she meets my eyes. She kisses me gently on the point of my chin and lets go of my hand.
I glance back at the timer on the microwave and sigh. “We’ll need to shower before dinner—and no, we can’t eat in the nude.” I slap a finger against her arm when she opens her mouth. “We’ve got two hours until dinner, enough time to get cleaned up, dressed again, and have the table set before setting the sides to steaming.”
“You wanna join me?” Her sloppy kiss on my cheek tells me it would be less a shower and more an encore.
I shake my head. “You go first. I have to baste it now or we’ll have jerky for dinner instead of a roast.”
With a groan, she levers herself up and lumbers off into the bathroom. I can’t help but admire the shining streams trailing down her inner thighs. She pauses in the doorway and bends over to give me a full view, hand planted on her rump before she laughs and dances into bathroom, not closing the door of course. I can’t see the stall from where I sit, but I can imagine her slicking a hand along her lips again, reveling in her own sexuality and admiring the view of her gleaming skin in a mirror.
She’s had me watch myself masturbate, too. and giggled enjoyment as I watched her toy with me, teasing me in full view of myself, teaching me so much about what I enjoyed. She taught me that. She taught me to love my body as much as she, and what each part looked like—something I had never dared do before her.
There’s a lot of things I never would have done if not for her. Like making love to my gorgeous girlfriend on a loveseat. And, I think, despite the name, they aren’t made for it… but they’re not bad for it, either.
I wait, fingers resting just above my inner thigh, stroking a strand of pink curl straight over and over. I wonder if I shouldn’t keep my hair. She loves combing her fingers through it, dry or wet, and loves the way she can tease me and never touch flesh.
The train of thought curls around and around just as the pubic hair does until I hear the shower start. I shake off the lethargic bliss, flex the stiffness out of my fingers, and head for the kitchen, intent on the sink.
It isn’t until I’ve set the baster in a hook over the sink and tossed my kitchen apron in the laundry hamper that I wonder what Rainbow had planned for dessert.
It isn’t until she comes out, dressed in nothing but a bathrobe hanging open and a towel wrapped around her hair that I remember she said she had some plans besides spending the night together.
Her smile tells me that I’m her dessert, and she is mine.
