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Not About Love

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They never have sex in a bed. It’s been three months and they’ve ever only fucked on the floor, the couch, or against the wall. There has been the occasional desk, as well as the kitchen table. On one occasion, they fucked on the stairs.

They’re both well past the age where they can shrug off their body’s protestations of such eager, energetic activities on such uncomfortable flat surfaces; if the sex weren’t so good, the sore backs and aching knees and rug burns wouldn’t be worth it.

Gaby has Pierrette against the door. The new maid (her fourth since Louise left) is gone today and it’s been a week since Pierrette has last visited. She was barely through the door before Gaby’s hands were unbuttoning her dress and stowing inside for the warmth of bare flesh. Pierrette doesn’t seem to mind; her legs are parted and she’s guiding Gaby’s fingers into wet folds. She climaxes as soon Gaby’s thumb presses hard against her clit and as Pierrette’s shrill cry echoes through the foyer, Gaby delights in the other woman’s easy responsiveness.

For all of Pierrette’s haughty sexual prowess, she is putty in Gaby’s hands.

Pierrette is greedy but Gaby doesn’t mind. When she asks Gaby to use her mouth, she doesn’t hesitate to kiss her way down her body while she settles on already throbbing knees. There’s a protesting ache in her limbs and it’s at times like this when she wishes she could allow the other woman into her bed, but she can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Beds are for lovemaking.

For love.

She won’t admit that this is about love. It’s about passion, about domination, about taking whatever is needed and wanted and desired. It’s not about love.

It takes longer for Pierrette to climax a second time but it’s just as intense, if not more, when she does. Her moans are quieter, softer, huskier. Her hands, which had been fiercely knotted in Gaby’s blonde trusses, relax and release, allowing the other women to pull away and rest her head against her thigh.

When Gaby licks Pierrette’s arousal off her lips and looks up into her lover’s face, she’s surprised by what she sees. Dark eyes are focused on her, their expression tender. Fingertips gently caress her cheek.

It’s not Pierrette’s gaze that stirs something within Gaby so much as it is her body’s response to it. Her raging, fierce desire simmers into a warm fusion of something so strong that she momentarily loses her breath. She recognizes this feeling immediately; she knows this feeling. Now, on the floor with ruined stockings and a sore body, she believes she can no longer pretend to call it by another name.

“Take me to bed,” she says.

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