![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
My entry to Torquere's May DIY contest, which didn't win for the very good reason that it's not that great - kinda experimenting a little really, and I can't decide if I like it or not. In any case, posted for completionism and rare [for me] femslash.
Comments of any kind, crit included, as always, appreciated. It's a one shot so I'm not too invested in the characters if you should want to take a fine tooth set of claws to it ;)
***** ***** *****
Tuesdays and Saturdays were her time, once Kiesha and Michael were asleep in their beds, and twice a week Lisa tuned the radio in to the hissing between two stations and let her thoughts off the leash. Twice a week she pampered and pleasured herself, took care of herself the way no one else was going to.
Terry had always had been a twice-a-week lights-off missionary position kind of man. It had surprised Lisa that she had missed it during the year around Matthew's birth because it had been months, maybe years, before that since she'd come with her husband.
On Monday nights they made love, and Lisa moaned and sighed in the right places and closed her teeth carefully around the right name. Fridays he was half drunk, half hard, sloppy and sweating and swearing, but at least she didn't have to lie with her eyes in the half-dark. Tuesdays were quiz night at the Heron and Saturday was the football – away matches every fortnight in season and home matches that ended up in lock ins on the in-betweens. Tuesdays and Saturdays were her time, then.
It hadn't always been like this. Years ago she had thrilled when Terry's lips met hers and every touch was a lovers' promise and touching yourself was something only sex-mad sad-cases did. Except she'd been a stupid teenager then, and Cosmo and marriage and re-mapping her body after Kiesha had taught her better than that. It wasn't the masturbation that gave her occasional pangs of guilt so much as her fantasies.
Faithful in thought and word and deed. Those were the words, echoes of her wedding vows that Lisa had fought with through dark nights and bleak days. Word and deed were the easy parts, but it was hard to make peace with the idea that really, two out of three ain't bad.
At first it had been Terry that she imagined when she brought herself to orgasm. Terry's hands and lips and eyes. An otherworldly Terry who massaged and teased and sucked and held her against the wall while he tongued her. Sometimes it had been other men – film stars or punters she'd served at the shop or imaginary dream-men with long fingers and soft mouths and dark hair that fell over their eyes, who made her laugh and come and scream.
The first time she realised that her imaginary lover had breasts of her own to roll in her palms, Lisa had shocked herself into abstinence. Long weeks with an un-fed hunger knotting slowly in her pelvis and so much guilt and shock crowding at the corners of her mind that made it almost unbearable to have Terry touch her.
Eventually she had reasoned that if the other girls at work were right about two out of three, maybe they were also right about a little of what you fancy? Absolute denial works only to inflame desire, so controlled surrender, then, was the key to success. They were talking about chocolate and dieting but the principle still held, and she'd laid back nervously and the next time her husband had wanted his way with her it wasn't as hard as it had been to play her part.
That was when she had given herself permission to think of women, to suck on her own fingers and pretend that she could feel a girl clamped down and coming around them. Over the weeks the imaginary men faded off the menu altogether, and in the months that followed those she had sifted through women, glimpsed breasts and waists and mons and glossed slick lips while she slid stiff fingers around her clit and imagined sighs and murmurs in the static. In the months after those first experiments she had fashioned a dream adulterer in her faithless thoughts - Bethan.
Bethan because her mouth had to shape around something when she was arched off the bed, pushing onto her own fingers. Bethan because it fitted the creamy skin and dark curls and wicked laughter that seemed so real for a few hours a week, as though Lisa's fingers touching her own thin skin formed a kind of aerial. Her nerves fired off sensation and creation all together, wove themselves an alluring woman, firm flesh and dancing tongue and loving eyes, and practise makes perfect, hard wiring the connections so that Bethan was there even when the thumb pressed against Lisa's crotch was callused and careless and male.
Tuesdays and Saturdays were her time, once Kiesha and Michael were asleep in their beds, and twice a week Lisa tuned the radio in to the hissing between two stations and gave herself to the woman of her dreams.
Comments of any kind, crit included, as always, appreciated. It's a one shot so I'm not too invested in the characters if you should want to take a fine tooth set of claws to it ;)
***** ***** *****
Tuesdays and Saturdays were her time, once Kiesha and Michael were asleep in their beds, and twice a week Lisa tuned the radio in to the hissing between two stations and let her thoughts off the leash. Twice a week she pampered and pleasured herself, took care of herself the way no one else was going to.
Terry had always had been a twice-a-week lights-off missionary position kind of man. It had surprised Lisa that she had missed it during the year around Matthew's birth because it had been months, maybe years, before that since she'd come with her husband.
On Monday nights they made love, and Lisa moaned and sighed in the right places and closed her teeth carefully around the right name. Fridays he was half drunk, half hard, sloppy and sweating and swearing, but at least she didn't have to lie with her eyes in the half-dark. Tuesdays were quiz night at the Heron and Saturday was the football – away matches every fortnight in season and home matches that ended up in lock ins on the in-betweens. Tuesdays and Saturdays were her time, then.
It hadn't always been like this. Years ago she had thrilled when Terry's lips met hers and every touch was a lovers' promise and touching yourself was something only sex-mad sad-cases did. Except she'd been a stupid teenager then, and Cosmo and marriage and re-mapping her body after Kiesha had taught her better than that. It wasn't the masturbation that gave her occasional pangs of guilt so much as her fantasies.
Faithful in thought and word and deed. Those were the words, echoes of her wedding vows that Lisa had fought with through dark nights and bleak days. Word and deed were the easy parts, but it was hard to make peace with the idea that really, two out of three ain't bad.
At first it had been Terry that she imagined when she brought herself to orgasm. Terry's hands and lips and eyes. An otherworldly Terry who massaged and teased and sucked and held her against the wall while he tongued her. Sometimes it had been other men – film stars or punters she'd served at the shop or imaginary dream-men with long fingers and soft mouths and dark hair that fell over their eyes, who made her laugh and come and scream.
The first time she realised that her imaginary lover had breasts of her own to roll in her palms, Lisa had shocked herself into abstinence. Long weeks with an un-fed hunger knotting slowly in her pelvis and so much guilt and shock crowding at the corners of her mind that made it almost unbearable to have Terry touch her.
Eventually she had reasoned that if the other girls at work were right about two out of three, maybe they were also right about a little of what you fancy? Absolute denial works only to inflame desire, so controlled surrender, then, was the key to success. They were talking about chocolate and dieting but the principle still held, and she'd laid back nervously and the next time her husband had wanted his way with her it wasn't as hard as it had been to play her part.
That was when she had given herself permission to think of women, to suck on her own fingers and pretend that she could feel a girl clamped down and coming around them. Over the weeks the imaginary men faded off the menu altogether, and in the months that followed those she had sifted through women, glimpsed breasts and waists and mons and glossed slick lips while she slid stiff fingers around her clit and imagined sighs and murmurs in the static. In the months after those first experiments she had fashioned a dream adulterer in her faithless thoughts - Bethan.
Bethan because her mouth had to shape around something when she was arched off the bed, pushing onto her own fingers. Bethan because it fitted the creamy skin and dark curls and wicked laughter that seemed so real for a few hours a week, as though Lisa's fingers touching her own thin skin formed a kind of aerial. Her nerves fired off sensation and creation all together, wove themselves an alluring woman, firm flesh and dancing tongue and loving eyes, and practise makes perfect, hard wiring the connections so that Bethan was there even when the thumb pressed against Lisa's crotch was callused and careless and male.
Tuesdays and Saturdays were her time, once Kiesha and Michael were asleep in their beds, and twice a week Lisa tuned the radio in to the hissing between two stations and gave herself to the woman of her dreams.
Tags: