Prompt Change

In Shades of Red

Touch it if you want to. Kiss it if you want me.

This is a standalone sequel to In Black and White, in which, after a drunken night in a sleazy club, Morgan woke to the familiar sight of a stranger in her bed… only this time, the stranger was a woman. Morgan doesn’t remember last night — not even screaming her ex-boyfriend’s name as this woman’s tongue brought her to orgasm — but she does want to find out why it happened, and whether she can return the favour.

My unexpected hookup scurries through to the bathroom, peaking my ass envy: her tight buttocks still manage to jiggle hypnotically.

Did I touch them last night? It’s possible: those sleek, soft curves do look very touchable. But also very female. So what the hell did I do last night? She says I hit on her, I kissed her. And I took her home, where apparently I lay back and let her lick me to ecstasy.

That isn’t me. I don’t pull. I go to Jester’s to be pulled, by a man. A man who’ll take charge in bed and fuck the loneliness out of me. On the other hand, laying back and passively letting it happen… that is me, but what usually happens is someone else’s orgasm, not mine.

I was someone else last night. I don’t know who I was, but echoes of that woman must still have been resonating in me when I woke. It was that other woman’s voice which asked my surprise guest to stay, which offered to even the score.

I can hear the shower running. My guest is preparing herself for me. For my mouth. For my tongue. What the fuck was I thinking?

I won’t be able to make sense of this while my head is waging war on my brain. I need hydration, and painkillers, and coffee.

I find a t-shirt in the pile of clothes on the floor, throw it on, and stagger through to the kitchen. Two glasses of water and two Nurofen are a good start. They’ll help with the pain, but only caffeine can clear my thoughts. I put the kettle on, grab a mug, then remember I need two of those as well.

The shower is still running. I shout through the bathroom door, “Do you want a cup of coffee? Or tea?”

The shower stops. She shouts back, “Coffee, thanks. Black as sin.”

“Sugar?”

She opens the door, naked and holding a towel. “Three spoons. I like it sweet as sin too. Oh my god, you’re blushing! That is so cute! And so dumb: you’ve already seen me naked, and I’ve seen your O-face. Just come in, girl, for god’s sake, and brush your teeth if you want to take me back to bed.”

I have to pass her to get to the sink. I’m glad I picked up a long t-shirt, so she won’t be staring at my bum.

I brush my teeth, making a conscious effort not to look at her in the mirror as she dries herself, not to watch as she lifts her heavy breasts, one by one, and towels beneath them. Did I kiss those breasts last night? Did I suck those dark, plump nipples?

She catches my eye in the mirror, and grins. “I used your shower gel. Interesting choice, you must have been expecting me.”

Oh god, the scent! “No! It’s just… it’s cheap, and I like that smell. It’s not racist! Is it? I would never—”

“Relax, girl! I’m fucking with you!” She sniffs her forearm. “It’s nice. Fresh.”

She wraps the towel round herself, then comes closer, close enough for her breasts to press against my back.

I freeze as she puts her arms around me, but she’s only reaching for the toothpaste. She squeezes a pearl onto one finger, puts the tube back, then wanders out of the bathroom with her finger probing her mouth.

Now she’s gone, I relax a little. I finish brushing my teeth then have an ultra-quick shower: just a rinse really, pits and bits.

And I can’t dry myself, because she’s walked off with my towel. I could go through to the bedroom, naked, and ask for it… or I could slick water off with my hand, and blot myself dry with my t-shirt.

When I put my damp t-shirt back on, it clings to my breasts. I should have asked for the towel.

I return to the kitchen to discover the mugs have gone. I find them — and her — in the bedroom. They’re on the bedside table; she’s sitting in bed, still wearing the towel and bundled in the duvet.

She smiles when I come in, and unwraps half the duvet for me. “I made you coffee, because that’s what you asked me about first. You had milk in the fridge, so yours is white, and I had to hunt for the sugar, so I didn’t give you any. Did I get it right?”

“Yeah, thanks. You made mine very white.”

“Yeah, I did.”

I keep my t-shirt on when I slip into bed.

I pass a mug to her, then pick up my own. “I’ve forgotten your name. Sorry.”

She shrugs. “You haven’t forgotten; you never asked. It was too noisy in the club, and our mouths were too busy outside. I’m Ellie.”

“Hi, Ellie. I’m Morgan.”

We sip coffee, side by side, in silence.

Ellie wriggles a little closer. Her skin smells of faintly of watermelon now, like mine. “Why is your flat so cold?”

“I prefer the cold.”

“Me too.”

“But you — ”

“I like what it does to your nipples.”

I look down to see them poking at the thin cotton of my t-shirt… and Ellie’s hand reaching for them. They’re not the only thing that can stiffen: I tense up, and feel my face burn.

Ellie pulls her hand back. “Sorry! You were keener last night, but I should have asked. Can I touch your breasts? They’re beautiful.”

She’s touched them already. I not only let her, apparently I enjoyed it. If I’m going to do what I promised, I have to be comfortable with touching her, and with her touching me. “Okay.”

“That’s hardly enthusiastic consent.”

“Well, yeah, I’m nervous! You can touch them though.”

She doesn’t. “What are you nervous about?”

“Sorry, but this is an unusual situation for me. I’ve never woken up next to a lesbian before.”

She rolls her eyes. “Girl, you met me in Jester’s. How many lesbians do you know who go to Jester’s?”

“I don’t know any lesbians.”

“You still don’t. I’m bi. I was trawling for disposable cock last night.”

“So what am I?”

“Based on last night, you’re bi too.”

“No, I meant if I’m not disposable cock, what am I? Disposable pussy?”

She shrugs. “Isn’t that why you went to Jester’s? To end up as some guy’s self-cleaning fleshlight? Oh lord, she’s blushing again! Truth is, girl, I like you, and last night was fun, but I don’t know what you are. Not yet. Finding out could be fun, though. So kiss me, sober, and I’ll tell you if I want to stick around for a while.”

I’ve been trying to build myself up for the moment of truth, forgetting there were other, smaller truths to overcome. “I’ve never kissed a woman.”

“Liar. You kissed me last night.”

“I don’t remember last night!”

“But you do remember your ex? Carl, was it?”

“Of course.”

“So pretend I’m him. No! Better idea! Pretend you’re him, only smarter. Then kiss me the way you wish he’d kissed you.”

I take Ellie’s mug and put it with mine on the table, then turn back to look at her. She’s gorgeous, but I don’t know how she wants to be kissed. I don’t even know how I want to be kissed. Usually I just let guys crush my lips, their tongue invading my mouth as crude foreshadowing of what we both really want.

I cup the back of her neck, and draw her closer, where I learn that I do know what I want. I think I always have. I want this: our lips meeting and parting, a soft but insistent pressure, tongues touching, tangling together but holding back hunger, my other hand sliding down her back to stroke her—

I break off the kiss. “Sorry!”

“Don’t apologise! That was wonderful.” She unwraps her towel and gestures down her body. “More kisses, please.”

Her breasts. She means her breasts… and further, but that’s a chasm I’ll bridge when I come to it. Meanwhile, a breast isn’t so big a hurdle. It’s skin, that’s all. Sensitive skin, stretched tautly in a seductive slope over tender, yielding flesh.

I test my resolve, pressing my lips to her neck, and her collarbone, and her sternum, and oh my, her breasts are soft, and warm, and giving, and I want to bury my face between them and breathe her watermelon scent.

I don’t do that. There’s something I want more, something I didn’t know I wanted until this moment, something I haven’t wanted since I was an infant.

It’s weird — but wonderful — to feel a fat nipple stiffening in my mouth. I suck gently, plucking at it with my lips, flicking the tip of my tongue across it, drawing a soft sigh from Ellie.

“Oh god, yes! Just like that. You’re making me so wet.”

I switch to her other nipple and give it the same treatment. I’m turning her on, but I know what I’m really doing: delaying moving lower, because all I can think of is that Garfunkel & Oates song about experimenting in college and how awful it was. I don’t know how I’m going to react when I’m face to…yeah. What if I’m repulsed?

Ellie strokes my hair. “So wet.”

I keep sucking.

Her sigh is less soft this time. “What’s the problem?”

“I’ve never even seen a vagina up close. Not in real life.”

She takes my phone from the bedside table and passes it to me. “If your flat was any warmer, I’d come out from under the duvet. But it’s freezing, so use your flashlight.”

She brings her knees up and spread her legs, making a tent. “Go! Take a look. Get comfortable with it. Touch it if you want to. Kiss it if you want me. And if you really want to even the score, make me come. Pro tip: three fingers fucking me slowly, while you suck my clit. Do that right, and it’s a ninety-nine percent guaranteed orgasm.”

Beyond the low mound of neatly trimmed, black curls, she’s waxed smooth. Her outer labia are the dark, almost black red of a good Shiraz, inviting me to drink deeply. And they’re plump, so plump that everything else is hidden until she reaches down, and with two fingers, spreads herself.

“Jesus! Sorry! Sorry. You startled me.”

I got a brief glimpse of glistening folds before her hand withdrew. Now my mind is full of that image, of the contrast between black and pink, and I’m worrying more about whether I’m racist to like that contrast than I am about how it would feel to explore it with my tongue.

Ellie is impatient. “Seen enough?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Then for god’s sake, girl, give me your phone back and get busy. I need your mouth on me.”

I pass the phone up, and stroke one fingertip lightly down her slit. She gasps, which is encouraging. I pucker my lips, lean in, and…

Ellie’s wearing the scarlet dress she wore to Jester’s. She looks stunning standing in my open doorway, ready to do the walk of shame… although she told me she doesn’t accept shame, and her one night stands always end in a slut strut.

I love seeing her ass in that tight dress, but I hate to see her go. “I’m sorry I couldn’t… I guess this is goodbye.”

She laughs. “Goodbye?! Girl, you don’t lose me that easy. I’m making you my special project. I’m going to give you lessons until you learn how to make me scream your name.” She throws her head back. “Yes! Oh god, yes! Oh, oh, ohhhh MORGAN!”

My neighbour down the hall, returning with his French bulldog from their morning walk, gives us a curious look.

“I’m blushing again, aren’t I?”

She smiles. “Yeah, and it is so fucking cute. I put my number in your phone. Text me.”

Another from Marsha Adams