I let out a long shuddering moan as I came; two hard spasms and a run of lesser ones; coupled with frenzied and uncontrollable arching against her as my base needs took charge of my higher functions. She laughed, then bit down hard on the nape of my neck like some great cat and bore down on me with all her weight, crushing me to the bed. Her nipples were hard against the burning skin of my back; mine were erect and aching. I forced a hand down under me and found myself and began to stroke myself in the way she’d so delightedly taught me; she gasped as I spasmed and clamped on her again and again and again.
“I’m going to fuck you properly now, honey,” she growled.
I moaned a reedy little exhausted affirmative, and my eyes rolled back into my head as she began to slam herself deep into me.
My throat was raw from the constant frantic gasps she was forcing me to take.
She was panting too, her musky sweat and scent filling the air around us.
A knot of fire was ablaze in my belly; my hips were shaking, thighs clenching randomly and spasmodically against her as she thrust and shoved and and laboured between my legs.
I could feel how wet I was, how slick she was, the ridges of her rock-hard member slipping and sliding past my fingers and in between the slender lips and downy hair that framed that most private part of me.
I’d never felt anything as good as having her in me, possessing me like this with her power, her beauty, her lust, making me feel part of something… special… even if just for this single, perfect moment…
“I… love…” I moaned, then cried out as a spasm rendered me incapable of finishing my ill-advised thought.
She clenched her hand on mine.
“Mine,” she groaned. “You’re mine.”
She shifted, began to drive herself hard into me, tucking her face in against my ear, tongue and teeth finding my earlobe. I flailed under her, transfixed by her and the pleasure she was giving me, each distending thrust nudging me onwards, upwards…
She began to shiver, to whimper.
“Jen, Jen,” she gasped, suddenly. “Jen, you are so amazing, oh, oh fuck, you are so amazing… Jen… I’m… I’m going to…”
And then she cried out, pushed hard against me, driving herself deep into me again and again, gasping, throbbing deep within me as she tried to bury herself as deep as she possibly could, clawing at my shoulders, shuddering belly ripping against my sweat-soaked bum.
And then my own final crashing orgasm, long hard constricting pulses on her that made her cry out and writhe as my body revelled in the feeling of her filling me in such a wonderful way.
She collapsed on top me, shaking as if she had a fever, the infinitesimal boundary between us slick with our sweat. Slowly, by delicious degrees, she softened; I moaned in disappointment as she whimpered and slipped out of me. A rush of hot fluid followed her and ran out over my hypersensitive little nub and fingers; the hot heady scent of sex topped with the faintest tang of sulphur surrounded us.
She slowly slid off me, and wrapped her arm around me; her semi-flaccid and rather sticky penis twitching and trailing moisture over the back of my thigh.
She nuzzled in and tucked her face in against me again, I turned my own and found her lips and slowly and languidly kissed her to thank her for the lovely gift she’d given us.
Then I reached out and wrapped my own arm around her and held her to me, nose to my nose, brow to my brow, cheek to my cheek, a little triangle of utter intimacy.
“Mine,” she whispered, once more, and I stared breathlessly into the banked embers of her glorious eyes.
There was a strange ache in my chest.
And I had to fight the sudden urge to cry.
Days became weeks, weeks became months. Midwinter and Christmas and the new year Below came and went, and I guided and shepherded my souls day after day.
But now, there were added complications.
Because Caitlyn and I had struck up a weird kind of friendship.
And the guilt of keeping it from Jezebel was eating slowly away at me.
Every time I thought of telling my… well, whatever she was to me, I shied away.
It was too difficult.
So, like a coward, I hid.
Hid between her thighs, or underneath her, slick and panting on her as she rode me.
Or hid in coffee shops and libraries or under the spreading boughs of trees on my frequent walks with Caitlyn down below.
Caitlyn.
Precious, innocent, living Caitlyn.
Cool, in many ways. Damaged, strangely distant at times, almost manically present at others.
I’d sit and watch her, watch the way emotion flittered over her face, watch the way she’d doodle in her drawing pad, watch the way she’d shyly tuck her hair behind her ear when she worked out how intently I was watching her.
I’ve never been good at nuance, so I didn’t know what I was doing.
Not even when she asked me if she could draw me.
It took some convincing; some deep-within fear warned me off.
But… I’d discovered that I was not strong enough to say no to her. Some shared pain, some echo of that first brief hug had snared me like quicksand, and every time I tried to escape I simply got more mired.
So I sat there, pinned like a butterfly to a page, then nodded a tight and nervous yes.
And watched as she captured my face with swift, angular strokes.
“I’m not that pretty,” I ventured, once.
“Don’t tell me what you are,” she answered, soft and level, as she shaded the shadows around my eyes.
And so I held my tongue, and sat, and watched, spellbound, as I came to life under her gentle care.
And from there, my fall into foolishness was swift and irreversible.
Caitlyn would ask me to pose for her maybe once every couple of weeks; and soon enough it became a thing we did.
And as she drew me we’d talk – or rather, at first she’d talk, and I’d listen. I’d listen to the lonely little tales from her life; growing up as an only child, a long string of schools brought about by her father’s habit of drinking and squabbling with the staff over real (or perceived) slights.
How she’d met Rhiannon in year nine, and kept in contact despite moving schools once again. How they’d plotted together and somehow wound up in freshers together at Cardiff.
Where Rhiannon had discovered just how much fun boys were.
And Caitlyn had worked out that she was in love with her best friend.
(She’d paused at that, her pencil crawling to a halt. I’d realised that she was fighting back the tears.)
And so time passed.
And I grew comfortable around her.
Comfortable enough to start to talk about my past, and some of the… harder things I’d had to do.
We’d taken to hugging – both when greeting and when saying goodbye.
I looked forward to my time with her.
It was private. Mine alone, no business of anyone else’s.
I started visiting in the evenings; I’d sit on Caitlyn’s bed and she’d sit on her stool, and we’d talk and drink tea and she’d draw me.
And somehow, somewhere, I grew bold enough to ask her draw a full-body portrait of me.
She was unsure at first.
But we talked it over.
And the next time I came to visit I’d dressed appropriately – in the outmoded linen frock I still sometimes liked to wear.
She made a noise, and put down the pencil.
“Are you okay?” I asked from my perch on her bed.
“No. Hand’s cramping. The folds of that dress are vexing me.”
“Oh. Sorry. I should have…”
“You look perfect in it,” she added. “It’s a great look for you. It’s just a complete arsehole to draw. It’s why we often draw or paint nudes. Less work. Fabric is hard”
“I suspect you’re giving away trades secrets.”
She glanced up at me, amused. “Maybe I am.”
I watched her, noting how hard she was pressing on her hands.
“Cait?”
“Yeah,” she muttered, distractedly.
“I could always… you know.”
“What?”
“I could always be nude, you know.”
She paused for quite a while, then coughed.
“I’m not going to deny that it wouldn’t be a whole lot easier. But… Jenny… are you sure you’re comfortable with that?”
“Yeah,” I answered, softly. “I’m… fairly comfortable with my body, these days.”
I sat up, and started to undo the line of buttons that ran from my breasts to roughly mid-navel. I peeled one shoulder off, then the second, and slipped my arms out of the sleeves. I stood, and let the dress fall to the floor.
Caitlyn sat, staring at me, mouth open. Then she seemed to realise what she was doing.
“Sorry,” she stammered. “You’re… you’re just so elegant…”
I flushed.
“There are many more prettier angels up there,” I whispered, suddenly shy. “Demons, too,” I added, thinking guiltily of Jezebel and her lovely curves.
I ducked my head and stared at the floor as I reached behind myself to trip the clasp of my plain white cotton bra.
I let it fall to the floor.
“Shit,” she whispered.
“What?”
I glanced up at her.
Her face was flaming red.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said, clearly flustered. “I’m… I’m being really unprofessional. It’s just… wow. Wow, Jenny, you’re so… oh God, you’re so gorgeous.”
I smiled at that, warmed through-and-through, and slowly slid my muted pink underwear down my legs.
“There,” I said, shyly. “All done. Um… how do you want me to… pose?”
“Um…” she said, seemingly as shy. She was looking everywhere but at me. “How… how do you want me to draw you?”
“I… guess I could… recline a bit, or something?”