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The following library liaison is an excerpt from my f/f story, "The Cliterary Elite," forthcoming in the e-book anthology, The Longest Kiss: Women Write on Oral Sex, from Mojocastle Press.
...I stand in our prearranged spot. Second level. Adult fiction. In between Sandra Cisneros's The House on Mango Street and Maryse Conde's Desirada.
My ballet flats taptaptap against the floor, the sound swallowed by the carpeting. You are late, always late, as though you have some sort of personal vendetta against punctuality.
But time is of the essence. The computers at the circulation desk must be activated. The novels cluttering the rolling carts must be returned to their designated shelves. The-
Ding.
The elevator announces your arrival, its silver-grays doors disconnecting, allowing you to emerge. To make your grand entrance.
"You're late," I chide.
You glance at your wrist, eyes narrowing behind red rectangular rims. "It's eight according to my watch," you insist, and flip your long licorice locks over your shoulder.
"It's five after eight according to mine."
"There's only one explanation then," you conclude, maneuvering your painted mouth into a smirk. "My watch keeps perfect time and yours is five minutes fast."
You snicker. I scowl. You pout. I pardon you.
Like I always do.
Like you know I will.
My complaisance functions as a kind of catalyst, accelerating your arousal. My eyes read yours, the umber irises glistening, the way waves reflect rays of sunlight. Sustaining eye contact, you lean against the shelves, drape your arms across the cool black metal, elbows gently nudging the creased spines.
Chapter one. I press my mouth to yours. Manipulate the supple pink petals. Tease the oval with my tongue. Ease the ellipses asunder. The interior is bumpy and slippery, and tastes of green tea.
Chapter two. My lips descend, trekking along your jaw, traipsing down your neck. Goose pimples pepper your flesh. Diminutive dots, like the surface of raspberries. You whimper and writhe, shivering as if you are cold. But the temperature has not declined, only risen.
Skip ahead. Chapter six. My hand ascends your thigh, the soft material of your slacks shifting beneath my touch. My fingers find the zipper. Pinch the tab. Separate the teeth. Venture to the interior of the fabric. I hear a sharp intake of breath as my digits graze the chiffon trim adorning the edges of your panties. But when my hand strokes the material between your legs, I discover that it is merely damp, not drenched.
Nothing the protagonist cannot overcome. After all, conflict is the crux of any good story...