Prompt: Small Town

In the Pink

Vanilla gives way to the subtle scent of arousal

A stand-alone sequel to In Black and White and In Shades of Red. Two weeks ago, Morgan woke after a Saturday night in the club to find she’d had her first lesbian experience. Unfortunately, she was too drunk to remember anything, even the screaming orgasm Ellie’s mouth gave her before she passed out. Morgan tried to reciprocate in the morning, but she lost her nerve. Ellie left, with an open invitation for Morgan to try again.

I meant to text Ellie the next day. I really did. But when I picked up my phone, contacting her so soon seemed too needy, so I decided to leave it until Tuesday. And then Wednesday. And the further I got from the memory of our kisses, of the softness of her lips and the sweet curves of her ass and the plumpness of her stiffened nipples, the nearer I seemed to be to the memory of my tongue almost touching the glistening pinkness of her pussy before I backed away, frightened by what I’d been about to do. Kissing Ellie — her mouth, her neck, even her breasts — was fun, but oral sex felt like commitment: not to her, but to a different me.

So I didn’t message Ellie on Thursday either, and by Friday I wondered if I had really meant to. And yesterday, for the first time since I broke up with Carl, I didn’t fill my lonely Saturday night with drinking, dancing, and dick. In my town, Jester’s is the place to go when you’re hoping for a drunken hook-up; pretty much the only place. It’s where I met Ellie and made her my drunken hook-up. It would have been too awkward to bump into her after a week of silence, so I stayed home and vegged on the couch with Netflix and ice cream instead.

I had another post-Carl first this morning: I woke without a hangover. I lay in bed for a while, relishing relaxation and remembering how Sundays used to be. Carl and I would make love, then afterwards, I’d make coffee and he’d make scrambled eggs, and that was love too, until it wasn’t. We’d eat breakfast, catch up with our socials, then we’d walk in the park. It recharged us for the week ahead: whatever the weather, or the season, nature always had something surprising and beautiful for us to appreciate.

I missed that, so I decided to go for a walk. There was a chance Carl would be walking too, but the park was mine as much as it was his, and if I saw him… well, I was over him. I’d just keep walking.

But life loves to laugh at unthinking people, so of course I don’t see him. I see her. With me. Or a woman who looks so like me — a too-skinny, basic white girl with a blonde ponytail — that I stop and stare. They’re both wearing pink: other-me has a tracksuit on, but Ellie is showing a lot of skin in a sports bra and tight shorts that cling to her perfect ass. Pink suits Ellie better, the contrast between clothing and skin reminding me of the contrast I saw when I tried to lick her — the contrast between my desire and my cowardice, between my intent and my inadequacy.

She’s just standing there — so fucking beautiful — with her arm resting on a shoulder that could have been mine, and my heart falls through my chest and crashes into my stomach. I’m sick at the loss of something I couldn’t even acknowledge I wanted until someone took it away from me.

Except other-me didn’t take it; I threw it away. And now I should walk away. They’re happy together, anyone can see that. Other-me probably eats pussy for breakfast and doesn’t blush when Ellie touches her. Other-me can go jogging in the park with her girlfriend and not care what people might think; real-me can only stare at Ellie and hope no-one sees the longing in my eyes.

But of course someone sees, and of course it’s Ellie. She turns, like she can feel my gaze, and she smiles when she spots me, and my face burns when I see her smile.

She turns back to other-me, whispers something to her, they hug, then I watch my doppelganger jog away while Ellie walks over.

“Hi, Morgan! Pink suits you.”

“But I’m not wearing—”

“I meant your cheeks, girl! You could have just texted, you know. You didn’t need to stalk me.”

“I wasn’t stalking you! And I didn’t mean to tear you away from your girlfriend either. You should catch up with her.”

She laughs. “My girlfriend? Nah, Sue and me just run together. I think she’d like us to be closer, but she’s not my type.”

“And I am?”

“Sure.”

“She looks just like me!”

Ellie reaches out to touch my arm, and I’m not pink any more, I’m scarlet.

“But she doesn’t dance like you, girl. Or smile like you, or blush like you. And I bet she can’t kiss like you. Although she’s never ghosted me like you, so maybe I should…?”

“I’m sorry! I did mean to text you, honestly, but I just… I got scared. Of myself, I think.”

Ellie nods understandingly, as though she’s drowning in women afraid to make love to her. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“No, Sunday’s my lazy day.”

“I only live around the corner. Come back with me. I’ll make us coffee and we can talk about what scares you. Just talk. Or whatever, if you’re in the mood, but mostly talk. Okay?”

Of course I said yes. I’d get to be close to her, without pressure, and she’d be… well, mostly dressed. And with luck, she’d change into something less distracting.

She did change, and she’s not wearing anything distracting. She’s not wearing anything at all, because she needed a shower and apparently she needed to talk to me while she showers. I’m sitting on the toilet, watching suds run down the plughole as she runs soapy hands over her breasts and asks me what I find physically attractive in a lover.

The answer is easier than I let on. “I dunno… erm… broad shoulders, I guess. A hairy chest is good. And, um, a fat cock is always nice.”

“I can’t do much about my shoulders, but I could stop waxing my boobs?”

“You wax your—”

“I’m fucking with you, Morgan! But if cock’s important to you, I’ve got a drawerful of them, and a handy harness.”

My eyes dart unwillingly to her crotch, and the unusual image of a dildo strapped over those dark, plump lips rises unbidden in my mind.

“Oh, no! I mean, I have toys, sure, but that would be too weird. Being fucked by a — ”

“By a cock that can’t feel pleasure itself, so its only goal is yours? Yeah, I suppose that would be unusual for a straight girl.”

She’s right: I am straight. I am, even if I have an even more unusual image in my head now, and a very familiar feeling between my legs.

Ellie turns the shower off, grabs her towel, and fills the awkward silence. “Why did you hit on me at Jester’s? I’m not asking what made you hit on a woman, but why me in particular? I know you don’t remember, but if you had to guess?”

“I dunno. Probably it was your smile. Your teeth are so white.”

“That’s racist!”

“You’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?”

She grins. “Yeah. My smile, though? That’s sweet. Not my ass, then? Oh, girl, your blush is too cute! I’d love to make you blush more often. Dry my back for me?”

I take the towel, and she turns round, showing me that gorgeous ass. I blot her flawless shoulders first, knowing she’ll expect me to work my way down, knowing she won’t ask me to stop when I hit tramp stamp territory, and knowing I won’t want to.

When my hands are only a thin strip of fluffy cotton away from touching her ass, she takes the towel from me and half turns. With her feet up, one by one, on the edge of the bath, she dries her thighs, and her buttocks, and everything in between.

She does at least attempt to refocus my embarrassment. “Serious talk, Morgan: I like you. A lot. I don’t want to pressure you, but I do want a sexual relationship with you. The thing is, I can’t have a sexual relationship with someone who can’t be sexual with me. And for me, being sexual has to include oral sex. Sorry, but it does. My lover doesn’t have to make me come with their mouth, but I need them to want to. They need to try. So… I enjoyed last Sunday, but if you can’t give me more than that, then I have to say goodbye and move on.”

I can’t give her more, but I don’t want to hear goodbye, not yet.

“Can we just talk for a while? And maybe, if I get comfortable, I could try again?”

Ellie picks up her discarded sportswear, and drapes her wet towel over her shoulder. “Okay. I’ll make coffee, then we can talk in my room.”

The kitchen is opposite the bathroom. When we passed it on the way to her room to pick up a towel, one of her flatmates was in there, making lunch. He didn’t pay any attention to us then, but he might now.

“Ellie! You’re naked?”

“Don’t worry about it. The guys are used to me wandering around in the nude. They don’t mind.”

I bet they don’t, but following her out isn’t making me any more comfortable.

The man who was making lunch is sitting at the table eating it. He looks up when we come in. “Hey, Ellie. Hi, Ellie’s new frie… Morgan? Long time, no see.”

Oh, fuck. “Hi, Tom. How are you?”

When you live in the same small town you grew up in, there is no escaping your past. I went to school with Tom. I went to third base with Tom.

“I’m getting by, Morgan. You know how it is.”

I do not know how it is. I never got a teenage girl pregnant when I was twenty-four. I’ve never been married, or divorced after less than two years.

Me and Tom make awkward conversation over a damp towel and sweaty sportswear while Ellie makes coffee. Both of us are pretending not to watch her ass; neither of us are good at pretending. Tom catches my eye, gives me a lurid wink, then sticks two fingers up in a wide V and waggles his tongue between them.

“I’m going to wait in your room, Ellie. Okay?”

“Sure. I’ll be through in a minute.”

Tom will talk. He always did. Back in school, when I sucked his cock behind the gym, I had almost a whole day before everyone knew about it and there was nowhere to hide. Now, most of my friends will know where I am and who I’m with before I’ve even finished my coffee. They’ll form their own conclusions about why I’m here, and what I am.

Ellie comes through with two mugs, sets them on the bedside table, then dumps her laundry on a pile on the corner. She lies down on her bed, her feet crossed on my lap.

Even if nothing happens in this room, even if we all we do is talk, that’s not what Tom’s going to say. It’s not what people are going to believe.

Ellie sips her coffee. “You good, Morgan?”

Whatever happens, people are going to think what they think. “Yeah, I’m comfortable.”

She doesn’t get it. “Just tell me if you want me to move my feet.”

“No, I’m comfortable.”

The corner of her mouth quirks, and she raises a questioning eyebrow. “How comfortable?”

“Can I try again?”

She answers me with a smile, and by moving her feet: she draws her knees up, and spreads her legs.

I can do this. I want this.

I don’t know if I do want this, but I know I want her.

I kiss my way slowly down the sensitive skin of Ellie’s inner thigh, drinking in the incongruous scent of vanilla body wash, until I have nowhere left to go but her most sensitive skin, and vanilla gives way to the subtle scent of arousal.

Finally, a week late but not a single penny short, I kiss her: eagerly, purposefully, with the same soft but insistent pressure as when I kissed her mouth. Her lips are just as receptive.

And nothing happens. Nothing changes. I’m still me. I’m still the quiet girl who gets loud and dances like a wine aunt when she’s drunk. I’m still that weird girl who prefers to be too cold. I’m still the same basic bitch who likes Starbucks, and Taylor Swift, and sucking cock, and hard-bodied, hairy men.

But I like this too.

My tongue probes, finding warmth, and wetness, and an unfamiliar taste: there’s a sweet-sour, almost apple tang, with a hint of saltiness, like clean skin after sweaty sex. And something else, something I can’t quite place…

I think it might be freedom.