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Skin Vision

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The gift lay between them, an unspoken offering from one to the other, sprouted from a bargaining, a devolution, perhaps. Their conversations were a helter skelter. That’s what kept the magic alive, what wildness had led to this new idea. Trixie wouldn’t have wanted more in any other life but curiosity killed the cat and she pawed at the limits of what Katya would allow.

Her divine (divinity was the act of study she undertook, undividedly, the immersion of a sacred being - and here she was on earth, and here she would sit, smaller than a lowly servant feeling higher than the power she sought) a woman; her heart a piece of her own creed, emboldened and resuscitated the more boldly the both of them espied different means to heaven, an inquisitive nature worthy of the bluest books. They were creating a canon of their own.

Her suggestion-come-to-fruition tipped her head back, stroked the side of her face as a blindfold was brought down, the silk of blackness bending her lashes as it pressed a kiss to her lids. Katya wrote her restrictions with the tugs at the back of her head, the prod of fingers to her lips, beneath her chin. Trixie took. Because she had had years to learn to teach the way of a long term love. Katya had cast an amateur’s charm until it evolved to expertise, too. An impact Trixie could map by sight, by touch, by the quiver of her stomach.

Now she was without, in waiting to be presented with so much. She could feel Katya’s outline. She was no longer solid, evidenced. Instead, she played with peripheries, keeping Trixie in place by removing herself, reminding her she was needed.

“Your first one’s here.” Trixie heard the smirk, the satisfaction, the tease. It was a picture too perfect. Red lips disguising white teeth disguising a filthy, flaunting tongue.

Footsteps on the carpet, brought nearer by Trixie’s obvious eagerness, were delicate and faint. And so she stretched up as if to reach out, reach them before they did her. She couldn’t intercept. It wasn’t her place. She fell back, deeper so - accommodating, open. Her thighs were already spread, the ghost of Katya’s grip as she had widened her lingering so when a new phantom caress overlapped, there was a double sensation. Nothing Katya had done to her could be overridden and, in touching more insistently, with long nails rather than short, ringed fingers instead of bare, Katya’s presence on her body, within her, became furthermore profound.

Vivid, she was. Always.

A fingertip trailed from Trixie’s bent knee in a meandering path up her inner thigh. Her skin was smooth and hot and jittery there and she jolted at first (a weight to keep her down might have been too intense yet the intrigue made her wonder what could have been better, and the woman taunting between her legs reminded her of the answer). The caresses mellowed her, as did the pinch between thumb and forefinger, the bite that indicated more than just a warning.

Then came the surge. It was strange to be surprised when it was the very thing she was so desperate for. Katya was rough in the same way that she was unbridled, knowing she could do what she wanted, that she had trust and care and unchallenged faith. This stranger didn’t know her. Her force came from hunger, unattached want. Trixie moaned, tensed at first and second contact. She gripped at whatever she could, another unknown. Her crawling hands made their way to curly hair, sank into thickness, coarse and dry.

She felt her own wetness drip, waited with bated breath for it to be tasted, devoured. Patterns and routines were predictable but Katya’s inclinations, repeated traditions, excited her because she expected them - they were the end to a stressful day, the midnight celebrations, the wake up call she never needed to ask for.

She tilted her hips forward and a drop ran between her cheeks, preserved for her sensation alone. She didn’t understand how anyone could abstain. The next to leave her, unconsumed, made her whine. There was a shame that came with being renounced. She liked to beg. This time she kept quiet, didn’t want her precious sounds to fall on deaf ears.

The pace quickened. She frowned, held her shudders still, the tell tale signs indicating too soon. She tugged at the curls, not as hard as she might have done to wavy and fringed. She curled in on herself as heat pooled, as muscles strained and beckoned release.

Then, nothing. Absence.

“Not bad.” Katya’s voice cut through the pregnant air. She was breathless. Trixie wondered what effect watching her was having, imagined a floridity bloom like an angry ink blot. Katya didn’t blush. She wasn’t delicate enough.

Trixie shifted, heavy and slack and fixed in position by her own arousal, more so, even, by the mystery of Katya’s. She could sense it just from how she had spoken, but part of her wanted to play into her temporary impairment, to create uncertainty when there wasn’t really any. Knowledge had to be fought for, worked towards. Reading Katya was easy after so long. One difference and Trixie was gunning for challenge, however superficial.

“Fuck, your next girl’s got tits.”

Laughter would have seemed inappropriate were it not always fitting between them, the wedge of humour they both shoved into any free space.

There was a pause, a shuffle, perhaps an adjustment of an outfit. Trixie imagined what would have accentuated such features enough for Katya to comment so immediately. Push up bra, framing straps, bare but for tape, all out?

Hands took her wrists, pressed them into the cushions behind her. Silent instructions followed one after the other until she was trapped in an invisible hold. No touching, no speaking, just feeling her rub her breasts against Trixie’s chest, up, then, in her face. Another obstruction - cotton and a high neckline, it seemed, and Trixie fought the hilarity she knew Katya would find in the moment, too.

She used her fingers, dipped into her, only shallowly, to spread her neglected wetness and bring it up. It was almost soothing, after being constricted, like a salve. She was riled, now, but determined to last. She didn’t know how many would come after and she thought herself strong willed enough to hold out. But then a certain place was reached, a precise angle and movement and pressure, and her resolve seeped out of her.

Canting up, Trixie moaned, filling the room with the noise that she was destined to create, curating the atmosphere.

She wasn’t to be the one to topple her, either.

A silence stretched, after her. Alone and vulnerable, Trixie considered crossing her legs, lying down, repositioning in some way as to regain some kind of touch, even if it was merely her own. She wanted to finger herself, buck into her own hand and unfurl. She stayed as she was. Impeccable to Katya, that way.

There were no introductions to the next. She knelt down and Trixie heard the leather of her trousers crunch and mould. When she made no move to do anything more, Trixie trailed her hand down the sharp contours of her face, her prominent jaw line, her lips, thin and dry. She wasn’t wearing makeup. Her femme heart (it was innate, not a role, not a product of another culture’s vulgarity or violence) pounded at the feel of her cropped hair, her strong shoulders, her flat chest covered in a simple vest. Nothing more, nothing to conceal.

“Fuck me, please.” Trixie whispered, passed over a forming smirk with insistent fingers until they were bit at, sucked on.

Arms wrapped around her legs, brought her right to the edge, to an awaiting tongue, chin, entire face, reticence be damned. Propinquity was the tonic. Trixie drank her own pleasure in. She was uncomfortable, scrunched up to fit, heels digging in to a rippling back and voice croaky, stuck in her throat from the need to shout as if it was even necessary. She was a sight for indecent eyes, she was sure.

Her tongue flicked inside her. She rolled it, pointed it, entered her as far as she could go. Trixie’s toes cracked as she stiffened, squealing, nasal and unbecoming. That was how she flourished, expressions and curses and tears, sometimes, falling or rising, depending on how she surfaced, into tides of desire.

She was strung out and along and on and on they went, somehow never completing. It was a tiring torture for as much as it was compelling. Moans and gasps fled her pouting lips until she had to swallow down a sob.

The woman pulled away. Disappeared like the others.

“Fuck! Katya, come back. Come back and finish me off.”

She was panting, hadn’t realised until she skipped an inhalation and choked on insufficiency. Coughing, she sat herself up, called out again, the name that held all her answers, filled the blanks and soothed her hiccups.

“Katya.” She repeated, resting her elbows on her thighs and burying her face in her sweaty hands, smothering the extremity. She didn’t yearn to be rid of what Katya had placed upon her. Because it wasn’t a restriction. It enhanced, instead, and Katya heightened everything for her, and she loved so readily, and she punished and she pleased and she gave and gave and gave until Trixie was whole again. Then she nourished, maintained.

“One minute, I hear you.”

Trixie had known despair, the old friend turned foe, and, years later, she had estranged herself from damage. Katya plunged her into experience and half formed beginnings and Trixie picked up where she couldn’t continue, turning over the soil that spoiled her rotten, to cultivate and flower. So she had faith, as ever, in Katya, her recrudescence, her joy - a faith as natural as nature itself.

Katya tiptoed towards her and Trixie smiled because she could imagine exactly what she would have looked like doing so, and she teased her, told her she needed to work on her stealth. How much she loved her crept up on her every day, a billion times over, as they formed new pathways together - the dawning and dusky walks of life - and it was fucking beautiful.

“Oh my god, you’re, like, the pinnacle of sexy. Like, if sexy was reborn in human form, it would be you, and I don’t ever want to take it for granted. Ugh! Did you enjoy your present?”

Trixie bit her lip, nodded. Her smile spread like a body on a bed and Katya lay herself over her, pushing her. She didn’t touch the blindfold. Katya’s hand dragged down her front. The licks and the tricks of her seduction worked better than her own vision. Katya gave her an image, talked through what she saw to get to the heart of the matter, repeating how gorgeous, how debauched, how worn down and built up.

Her kiss came in fits and starts - the brush first, then the breath, a sequence of grazes and suggestions until Trixie finished her preface, a thousand words without uttering one. She kissed her, deep and searching, as she always did, to remind them both that she had been found. Katya tugged on her lip, released more from her, until Trixie couldn’t stop the frantic clutches, yanking at Kaya’s clothes, taking them away.

Katya put her knee too close for comfort. Trixie moved herself down to rub against her, leaving her mark, impermanent though it was and a distraction from what she couldn’t see. She felt Katya ease away, nose down her neck and along her collar bones and press fleeting kisses to her breasts. She sucked on her nipple and then slid her bare chest against hers so Trixie could feel the contrast, the difference.

Katya copied everything from before. She went down on Trixie, knelt between her legs and used her fingers, got her riled up and tired out as if it was the first time Trixie had been touched that day. And then Katya stood, untied her, kissed both her adjusting eyes and gave her time to blink away the frustration.

Trixie screamed with laughter, spotting the clues, haphazard and abandoned when being taken off. A couple of strands of hair, snapped off from the wig and thick and synthetic, stubbornly stuck to Katya’s shoulder, the dampness of her skin tacking them to her. Remnants of makeup smudged and blurred at the edges of her features. Mascara specks crumbled and collected on her bottom lash line, the wrinkles of her chapped lips were stained with pink and red, and imprints from another element of her disguise striped across her lower ribs, up from her armpits like two straps.

“Fake titties are a real pain, who knew?” She commented, grinning with smug delight.

Trixie shook her head. “You’re...indescribable.”

“Good, I refuse to be explained.” Trixie knew this, knew Katya knew so, too.

Trixie offered out a hand. Katya took it, toppling on top of her. Katya cupped her, kissing her as if they had never parted, and sank into her, inch by inch, until Trixie was filled, thrumming, on the brink of collapse. Trixie watched Katya staring, wanted to bore into her too, the internal, eternal burrow.

She came with a raw silence, adjoined to Katya with no need to look for a language to share, to illustrate so literally. She saw everything she had ever been without in the blue green of Katya’s eyes, in the shiver shocking them both afterwards, in the eloquent expression overtaking Katya’s whole demeanour. It was one of pride and wonder and liberty. Love, a twisted ribbon too adamantine to undo.

Trixie got under Katya, facing her, planting her hands on her ass and encouraging her forwards. A resolute move. Katya didn’t shy away, lowering herself, instead, settling on Trixie’s tongue, already probing. Trixie kissed her cunt, tasted her, smelled her, breathed her in before she suffocated. Katya used her mouth, pushing her curves to sit between her lips. Trixie didn’t once glance away, nor did she let up, pause to inhale. She would have rather died. Utopia opened up for her, yelled out her name and carried her along.

Katya’s orgasm was drawn-out and wandering and Trixie chased her peaks and troughs until neither of them could go any further.

She made space for Katya next to her, her back against the cushions of the sofa so Katya could roll off at a moment’s notice and determine what would happen next.

She stayed, unmoving. Trixie smiled as she yawned, beamed when she kissed her nose.

“Did you like your present, then?”

Trixie rolled her eyes, kissed Katya back. “You know I did, idiot. Though it pained me, how quiet you had to be.”

“I’ll use all my different accents next time.” She joked, the both of them fully aware of her proclivity to break out the Australian or the Essex whenever she wanted to make Trixie laugh, the Russian when Trixie needed telling off.

Trixie stroked down Katya’s face and cupped her cheek. “It doesn’t work so well, anyway.” She said. “Because I’ll always know who you are.”