Sunset ^beta

‘You are shy.’

Shy! Shy is blushing over unexpected attention from strangers, or how you act after someone catches you sticking your tongue out at a mirror—neither of those are anything at all like lying back while someone looks at you between the legs. One of my hands rested against my forehead; I felt overheated, and I imagined I was quite red in the face.

‘Shy?’ I said, forcing a laugh. ‘Shyness ain’t in it.’ I was trying to sound more confident than I felt; I wasn’t quite able to meet Maud’s gaze, however, and kept looking anywhere but her face, or my spread knees, or—definitely not there. The pillow felt too warm about my neck and my hair felt trapped beneath my shoulders; it felt like my head was being cradled, held in place. I tried to manoeuvre myself a little differently, but it was difficult to move much, considering she was currently kneeling between my open legs. I couldn’t have closed them if I tried, with her there, in my way.

Shy. Me? I’ve never been the sort. Growing up at Lant Street, I always felt like I knew my worth, like I didn’t have reason to be shy. Oh, if I had only known exactly what my real worth was to Mrs Sucksby . . . 

I felt Maud’s hand touch my leg, a little above my knee. I worked up the courage to peek at her face and just about shuddered when I saw her looking down at it—at me. At first glance, I thought she looked serious, due to the way her eyebrows were set; I made myself look closer, however, and I saw a faint smile upon her lips. She was leaning forward, one hand on the bed to brace herself, and I could see most of her bosom through the gap of her untied nightgown. I’d never seen her breasts like that before, sort of hanging. Unlike me, Maud usually lowered herself onto the bed slowly, more ladylike, I would say; while I had a tendency to scramble onto it on all fours, in a hurry, before ducking beneath the covers, especially when the room was cold—but even when not, I suppose I had made it a habit.

Had Maud ever seen me like that, then? Here I had thought the first time she saw my breasts had been last week, the night of my return to Briar. I laughed nervously at the thought, which made her look up at my face, and I saw my own nervousness reflected in hers. She asked anxiously,

‘What is it? Have I done something wrong?—Something that you do not like?’

‘No! God, no! It’s just—It’s just an odd position to be in, miss.’ I felt my slip immediately and shut my eyes again; yet I laughed, too, for it seemed to me that there couldn’t possibly be a more ridiculous time to accidentally address her as ‘miss’ than now. I supposed it was an effect of being at Briar again, even if everything was different now. I looked back at her, to see her reaction: she looked a little redder in the face than before, and her brow had smoothed. She wet her lips and cast her eyes downward; I felt my breath catch in my throat, for I thought that meant that she was about to—. But no, she had wet them only to say,

‘But you’ve heard of it before. You said that you did, when I read to you what I had written.’

Oh, I’d heard of it, certainly: but only when Mr Ibbs’s nephews thought I couldn’t hear them boasting to one another; or maybe I would hear it mentioned, in a limerick, a single line about a man sticking his face up a girl’s skirt. Dainty had usually been the one I went to when I had questions or curiosities—like when she had shown me how to kiss—but when I had asked her about this, she just shook her head and laughed, an uncomfortable sort of laugh. It wasn’t as if I couldn’t guess what was being done, or at least what was being pressed to what, but it had just seemed such an odd choice for anyone to make.

Until I met Maud, it never crossed my mind, the idea that this could be done between two women; when I admitted that to Maud, she had given me the queerest laugh, almost as if I was missing something obvious. The laugh had unsettled me. It was, after all, quite the shock, going from thinking her so innocent, so ignorant of anything of that nature, to finding out from her that there were words—official terms, even—for the things we had done that night.

And she knew them all. I had, for the most part, been improvising, supplementing what I had heard of people doing with whatever I had on-hand—and, well, I suppose it was my hand, specifically, which I had primarily used. It had worked.

It worked so well, in fact, we hadn’t really moved beyond touching one another just the same as I had that night. Not yet.

She took one of my limp hands and held it to her mouth, pressing a kiss to my knuckles; then, she turned it so that she could fit her cheek against my palm. I curled my fingers to stroke her jaw with their tips, then turned my hand to lift her chin. Her brown eyes were alert, anxious, but her expression slowly became soft as she gazed at me. She took my hand from her cheek and beckoned for me to sit up, which I did. I could feel my hair sticking to my neck and I gave it a little shake to free it; it was a relief to get away from the stuffy pillow, to feel cooler air upon my face and neck. I did not mind it, however, when Maud moved in to kiss me, hot as her face felt against mine. Her grip on my thigh tightened, to steady herself against the force with which I kissed her back.

Before I kissed her that night in April, I did not truly realise what it meant to kiss a lover, what a powerful thing it was; I could hardly have anticipated how entirely different it would feel to kissing family or friends. And while I couldn’t specifically remember thinking it, I was sure at some point that night, as I went between her mouth, her neck, and her breast, it did cross my mind to place a kiss there, too. And how couldn’t I have, once I had touched her, felt how soft and warm she was there?

I moved both my hands up, to tangle them in her hair. It had taken me over half an hour to brush it for her; she wasn’t, by any means, a complete mess when I found her (aside from all the ink smudges) but there were some tangles she had missed, which she seemingly had been content to ignore. Now, her hair was smooth as silk, and if it were to become untidy, I thought it should be at my doing.

Her hand moved to my hip, and there she met my bare skin, for my nightgown had ridden up and was still mostly pinned beneath me. When I tilted my head back just slightly, so I could breathe better, she took my lower lip between hers, then I felt her tongue brush against it. My hands became weak, and I slowly took them from her hair, setting them upon her shoulders; the change made her pause, withdraw, and study my face. I imagine I must have looked drunk, at that point, even if I hadn’t anything but a little wine with dinner that afternoon. I leaned back in to kiss her, but she pulled her mouth out of reach, and said,

‘Lie down.’ She gave me a look of encouragement as I leaned back upon my elbows. Once I had, she smiled, looked hopeful. ‘Do you trust me?’

That made me laugh, and she had the decency to look sheepish, once she realised what she said.

‘I shouldn’t,’ I said, ‘but I guess love really does make pigeons of us all.’

She ducked her head with a little laugh, then looked again to me, her expression once more cautious, and asked, ‘But do you trust me? With this?’

I looked between us: her gown fell upon me like a curtain, so I couldn’t see past my waist. I could still see down the neck of her gown, however, due to the way the loose fabric hung, all the way down to a red bruise I had left between her breasts the night before. I wished I could see even further, see all the way down to her—. It was that thought which made me realise that if the positions were reversed, I’d have already started kissing my way down her body, by then.

‘Go ahead,’ I said, looking up from her bosom, to her face. I held my breath.

Maud looked so surprised, so hopeful once I’d said it, that it took her a moment to make her move: then, she came in close to my face to kiss me hard upon the lips, and I leaned back against the pillow, which was cool and comfortable once more. I felt her make a relieved sort of noise against my mouth, as if the wait had been painful to her. She reached to put up my gown the rest of the way and when she touched me, she kept her hand quite still; she was focusing on kissing me, and it seemed for a time that we both became lost in the act.

Then, her kisses moved from my mouth, down to my jaw, then to my throat; I thought she’d take her lips to my bosom, as she liked to do, but she passed my breasts and kept travelling downwards. Before I even had a chance to feel shy again, as she’d described it, she put her lips to my thigh. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I rested one on my belly, while the other laid limply on the mattress, next to my hip.

Her eyes were mostly shut, in an almost-dreamy sort of way. She breathed hard, but slowly, as if trying to maintain her composure, or to prepare herself.

Of all the things I could think about, in that moment, when her breath hit my thigh, I thought of Charley Wag, damn it!—under the table, trying to lick at people’s legs to get their attention. I reached up quickly to cover my mouth, to try not to laugh at how my imagination ran, but she seemed to have taken the sound I made to be a cry of pleasure, I suppose—for it was then that she moved her face further up my thigh, until I could feel her cheek brushing against my feather. I thought it must tickle or itch at her skin, but she didn't seem to mind; or maybe she didn't notice.

I shut my eyes and tried to focus. Perhaps it would have been easier in the dark, like that first time—for me, anyway. What can I say? At the time, I was still more used to seeing her naked body than my own, from all the times I had dressed her.

Both my thighs had begun to grow slick, though she only had her mouth to one of them. Her face was so close to where my legs joined, that even if it didn’t make contact, I could still feel her movement, the pressure she was putting in places nearby.

It was because my eyes were closed that I didn’t see her turn her face, didn’t see her press her closed mouth against the front of me—but I certainly felt it. I think I made a noise, unintentionally, and I felt compelled to look down, to see what exactly she had done. I saw the white of her hand pass over the red flush she had left on my thigh, where she had been kissing, and saw it move to touch me—I know made a noise, then. Almost immediately after she touched me with her hand, I saw her face move close and felt her lips upon me there, for the first time.

It was unfamiliar, different; it was warmer, lighter, more uncertain than her fingers. Her mouth, her chin, all covered a broader area than her slender fingers did. For several seconds, she seemed to just stay put, her mouth lost behind the curled hairs; I worried that they’d remind her of Gentleman’s whiskers; or, perhaps, that they’d make her sneeze! I worried she would not like the taste of me. Yet I almost wanted to laugh! For it was so strange, wasn’t it?—seeing her handsome face there of all places. Instead of laughing, though, I kept still and quiet, not wanting to ruin the moment for her; after all, she had made it quite clear, in so much of her writing, just how much she wanted me in this way.

My fingers twitched in surprise, and I blinked, when I felt her mouth begin to move again: it did not move to draw away, but to feel about, to taste. The hand I had rested on the mattress slid a little towards her, but I forced myself to hold it still. I could feel her hand moving slowly against me, too, but it was hard to determine exactly what she was doing with it, so focused was I on her mouth. Her mouth, which shone in the light when she lifted her face to take a deep breath; her mouth, which would flicker to a smile every time it emerged from where it was hidden behind my feather. Every so often, too, she would pull her face back just enough so that she could peer down at me, as if she was looking for something she was missing—as if she had dropped something, like a pin, and was trying to find it without alarming me. Then she would glance at my face, and duck back down and resume what she had been doing—I shivered each time she made fresh contact.

Then, I saw her lift herself up a little further, saw her pale fingers move carefully behind my feather, and it was after she did this, after putting her mouth to me again, that I felt it—a change. I must have done something, made some noise, for I could feel her head shift very slightly, as if she wanted to look up at me—but she caught herself, just as she would have if I started speaking to her while she was reading and she was afraid to lose her place. Her brow, which had become furrowed with concentration, grew smooth as she slid her mouth carefully over the one area she had found. I slid my hand down from my stomach and touched my fingers to her hair: certainly not to stop her, nor to steer her—just to touch her, to encourage her.

She seemed to sense my meaning, for she then grew bolder; and looking at her, seeing her eagerness, feeling her mouth move more confidently, my own shyness began to fade. When she strayed from the spot she had found, I shifted my hips to help her find it again; and when I moved my hips, she reached under my leg and pulled my thigh closer, to keep me from getting too far from her. I started to shift more beneath her sliding lips and tongue, but her grip on my leg kept me in place.

At one point, she had to come up for air again, and the look I saw upon her face was practically one of awe; she looked like how I imagine someone would look if all their prayers had just been answered. All from doing this, to me. I tried to say words, but I know at that point, it must’ve just been me repeating, ‘How—!’ and, ‘I want—!’ over and over. According to Maud, those are apparently my favourites: the ones I tend to repeat when I’ve grown too overwhelmed to say anything properly clever or sweet.

‘Oh!—Oh, there!’ I said, my voice breaking, becoming weak and shaky. I heard her make a noise of acknowledgement— felt her make it, right in my—

I lifted my head from the pillow to look at her, but I seemed to shiver so hard that my eyes wanted to stay shut; through my lashes, I got only a glimpse of her hair, of the small movements of her head. I couldn’t speak at all, just move and feel. For God’s sake, I hope I wasn’t trying to speak at that point, for breathing was a hard enough task, and I had nothing of substance to say. It was like I became completely stupid, for a little while . . . but it was a blissful sort of stupidity. When it passed, it left me feeling weak and lightheaded.

Her mouth had begun to slow, to wander, until her kisses became less concentrated, aimless; if her lips had been weary before that point, she hadn’t let it show. I forced myself to open my eyes, and I gazed down at her. When she pulled away from me, I could barely distinguish between the sounds of her laboured breathing and my own. I could see her, however, enough to tell that she was laughing; quite in the same way that I did when I won a card game—proud, but in a harmless, gay sort of way. Some of her hair was sticking to her cheek, so I brushed it aside for her. She looked almost as exhausted as I felt; she lowered her face, placed an almost chaste kiss upon me there, before she finally pulled away.

My other hand joined the first to touch her head, but it didn’t stay there long, for she rose up from her position and carefully made her way up the bed, towards my face. Her lips shone in the candlelight as she came in closer to press wet kisses upon my neck. She drew my hand to her breast and held it there; her own heart hammered much like mine.

‘Do I have to say you were right?’ I asked breathlessly. I heard a little gasp of laughter, muffled against my neck.

‘Oh, I should think so.’

‘Damn you,’ I said, the smile on my face wringing any seriousness out of my tone. My hand moved gently over her breast as she continued to kiss my neck. ‘Very well, Miss Maud ,’ I said, and I would have curtseyed then, had I been standing. ‘I suppose you were right, when—’ I was cut off by my own strangled cry, for she had kissed my neck hard, and I knew it would leave a bruise there tomorrow. I furrowed my eyebrows in focus to continue: ‘You were right, when you said I shan’t miss your fingers.’

Her laugh sounded pleased, and when she pulled her face away, she had her chin raised proudly. I reached with my free hand to run my fingertips over her pink lips; she pushed my hand aside, out of her way, so she could kiss me upon the mouth. My eyelids fluttered shut and I made a sound in my throat as I tasted—Well, I suppose it was myself, wasn’t it? I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but the way she kissed me wasn’t leaving me with much room to think, anyway. But I supposed, it wasn’t so unlike the taste of her that she left upon my fingers—although I couldn’t help but prefer hers to mine. In due time, I would have all the experience I needed to judge it fairly—but she would still win, of course.

The hand I had been about to use to touch her mouth, I instead slid between us, past the one that still stroked her breast, stopping low on her belly. She made a noise—one I thought sounded rather impatient—then seized my hand and moved it lower, pressed it firmly against her. I bent my fingers somewhat, to put pressure, and she cried out; I felt her moan within the bones of my face; the vibration of it even tickled my nose. She pressed my hand more insistently with hers, so I started sliding it, but very slowly. I couldn’t help it—I liked to tease her, just a bit, when she was like this. She pulled her head back when she felt me laugh, and looked at me with almost scandalised seriousness, but said nothing.

I responded only with my most blameless smile as I continued to move my hand very slowly. Even through her gown, I felt my fingers growing damp, which made the sliding motion become smoother. One of her hands moved to my shoulder and clutched at it. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and leaned forward until her forehead touched mine; I tilted my mouth up to kiss her, but she was too preoccupied to do anything except pant against my lips. The rhythm became easy; she rocked against my hand, and her grip on my shoulder tightened. I felt her tense, felt her movements become jerky, and she clutched my hand hard against her as she gave a strangled cry. As she began to shake, I stared at her naked, unguarded expression: her open pink lips, her fluttering lashes, the blush upon her cheeks . . . Once her shiver passed, I stared intimately into her unfocused brown eyes.

She looked lost for some seconds, and she stared at me almost as if she was stunned to see me there. I still moved my hand slowly against her, figuring she would stop me if she no longer wanted me to. Her hold on me relaxed, but she still leaned upon me for support. When I went to kiss her again, this time she responded with enthusiasm, breathing hard through her nose; her mouth still tasted of me. She released my hand and I flexed my damp fingers, finding them stiff. Her gown stuck to them at first as I smoothed down where it had bunched up and taken the shape of her between her legs. I ran my hand up her hip and kept her steady, for she seemed as if she might be in danger of falling over. We both grew slow as exhaustion set in, and our kisses turned to mostly rubbing our lips to each other’s mouths, as we were both unwilling to pull away completely. When she finally laid her head upon the pillow beside mine, she took my hand—not the one I had used to touch her—and held it to her lips as she drifted in and out of sleep.

I must have eventually fallen asleep, too, however; for the next thing I remember was waking up in darkness, to the sound of Maud muttering in her sleep; her voice was too faint to understand, but too troubled for me to rest easily after that.