Turn For You

by

“Ummm, Rupali?” Trish said.

“What?”

“These costumes…”

“Retro chic. I know, right?” Rupali said, her voice ringing with excitement.

The girls stood before the full-length mirror in Rupali’s dorm room, getting dressed for Halloween. They were both fitted out in 1960’s stewardess uniforms—navy blue long sleeved mini-dresses with deep v-necks and lapels, gold braiding around the cuffs and large gold buttons all the way down the front. Trish stared at herself with uncertainty and mounting concern, while Rupali was smiling and turning left and right, admiring the narrow cut at her waist and the way the dress buttoned so tightly over her breasts, pushing them together and showing a deep cleavage. Sliding her hands beneath the lapels, she lifted them a bit higher, revealing a sliver of golden brown areola on each side.

“Too much?”

“No. I mean yes … I don’t know,” Trish said. “Don’t you think these dresses are a bit…?”

“A bit what? Gorgeous?”

Trish tossed her long, red hair back to open up a freckly cleavage of which she was disproportionately proud, given its modest swell. “A bit, well, short.”

Rupali looked down at the hemlines, which just barely covered their bottoms. “Well they are mini-dresses,” she rationalised. “And the sixties were pretty racy.”

Comforting Trish after her break-up last month, Rupali had held her close while she cried it out, and then afterwards kissed her sweetly on the lips. Ever since, Trish had the impression that her dorm-mate was trying to lure her into some kind of girl-on-girl thing. Under normal circumstances she might have found that alarming, but with Rupali—tall and slim with exotic coffee-and-cream skin, and long, jet black hair—the most alarming thing was that Trish was, well, interested.

And now, these dresses with their tiny, tiny hems and their bursting bust-lines. That couldn’t be a coincidence, right?

“Are you sure they’re real?” she asked, dragging at the hem for maybe the hundredth time.

“Of course they’re real. You’re wearing one, aren’t you?”

“No. Are they real airline uniforms?” Trish explained. “They’re not, like, porno fantasy costumes or something.”

Rupali snorted laughter. “Oh, they’re real, all right. I was part-timing at the Thrift Shop and met the lady who donated them. Seventy years if she was a day.”

“Eeeeew! I didn’t need that visual.”

“Well she wasn’t wearing one!” Rupali retorted, laughing. “In fact she looked very elegant and modest for a senior citizen.” She adjusted the lapels until her areolae were hidden again. “Man, she must have rocked these things in her day.”

Trish still felt uncertain.

“Maybe they’re supposed to be jackets,” she said, brightening. “Are you sure there weren’t any matching skirts?”

“Oh, stop being a princess. They’re plenty long enough. Now put your hat on; we need to get to the party or all the nice boys will be taken.”

Trish compared the two reflections in the mirror and found herself envious of Rupali’s fuller breasts, flashing mahogany eyes and cascades of glossy, black hair. Her friend had her arms raised, winding those obsidian locks into a tidy bun so that she could pin on the little stewardess’s pillbox hat, when a flash of pink lower down caught Trish’s eye.

“Your knickers are showing below your ‘plenty-long-enough-mini-dress’.” She pointed to the reflection with a giggle. The gauzy gusset of Rupali’s panties was peeking out beneath the hem. She finished pinning on her hat and lowered her arms, but the mini-dress stayed up where it was.

“Oh my goodness,” she said with a giggle, pulling it back down. “How did flight attendants ever load the overhead lockers in these things? They must have gotten groped six ways from Sunday.”

“Maybe they wore tights?” Trish said. “Or maybe they were just shorter than us?” Both girls were tall, so it was entirely likely that the original tailor had cut the uniforms for shorter women. She experimentally lifted her arms to tie her own hair and was not surprised to see her high-cut briefs appear. Her eyes met Rupali’s in the mirror, and to make a joke of it she did a sexy pout and snaked her body back and forth, running her hands through her hair and twisting her hips. The mini-dress rode higher still, exposing not just the gusset but the whole leg, all the way around to her hip.

Rupali copied, lifting her arms, provocatively grinding her hips and blowing kisses at the mirror until she too was flashing three or four inches of underwear and both of them were giggling uproariously. Trish noticed with an unfamiliar thrill the way the sheer nylon clung to the smooth curves of her friend’s sex. She could see a tiny thatch of black pubic hair through the translucent fabric and realised jealously that Rupali was almost completely shaved.

Unbidden, an image popped into her head: Rupali’s pussy open and wet, poised over her face, and she was running her tongue over those soft, flawless lips. She imagined kissing her there, tasting that sweet musk on her tongue, straining and probing deeper into the heat of her womanhood to find the wellspring of that perfumed nectar.

Licking her lips guiltily, Trish realised she had no idea how long she had been staring at Rupali’s pussy. She looked up and saw the beautiful brunette watching her with amusement.

“You’re right,” Rupali said. “These things are too short. We can’t be flashing our knickers at the party.” With that, she slipped her fingers beneath the waistband, pulled her panties down her long legs and off over the heels she’d picked out for the costume. “Well, that’s better,” she said matter-of-factly, both girls looking at the smooth, brown lips of her pussy in the mirror as her dress stayed bunched up at her hips. “You can’t see them at all now.”

Trish’s heart was pounding. The idea of kissing a girl had never disgusted her, but even though she had thought about it several times, she hadn’t really considered herself interested in the idea. Until now, that is.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, looking nervously into Rupali’s eyes in the mirror.

“Does what hurt?”

“You know, shaving. Down there.”

“Only if you get it wrong,” she laughed. “Actually, I wax; but the principle’s the same. It’s awkward and easy to make a mess of it. Much better to get someone else to do it.”

“Oh, I could never do that,” Trish’s eyes flashed nervously.

“Nonsense. It’s nothing compared to what you let your gyno do. And it’s so worth it.”

“Worth it?”

“The first time I shaved, my boyfriend couldn’t go down on me quick enough!” Her whole face lit up with the recollection. “Let a guy get his hand in your panties and then watch the look on his face when his fingers slide over smooth, bare skin. They practically start drooling to get their tongue into you. And it’s not just lick, suck, let’s fuck; they stay down until you’re coming like an early Christmas.”

Trish blushed at the mental picture inspired by her friend’s profanity, still staring at her pussy in the reflection.

Rupali turned to face her. “Close your eyes,” she said quietly.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m almost naked and I’m feeling modest. So just shut them, okay?”

Oh-my-god-oh-my-god. Trish shut them.

Rupali took Trish’s hand and guided it between her legs.

Trish gasped, but didn’t pull back. She could feel the little crop of hair against the heel of her palm, but everywhere else—all the way down to the tip of her middle finger somewhere near Rupali’s anus—was completely, utterly smooth.

With Rupali guiding her hand, she stroked slowly up and down, fingers sliding with frictionless ease over the soft, hairless flesh until she felt her friend’s juices welling onto her fingertips.

“Now pretend you’re a guy.” Rupali’s voice came softly, right up close to her ear. “Imagine how that feels against your lips and your tongue.”

“Mmm. I can imagine it,” said Trish, her voice catching as she struggled to control her breathing. Then, summoning up every shred of courage she could muster, “But I’m not imagining I’m a guy.”

In lieu of a response, Rupali kept stroking herself with Trish’s hand, but applied the tiniest pressure to her middle finger. Trish needed no further encouragement; she pressed down and Rupali’s swollen lips opened like a flower, instantly coating the length of her finger in lubricating juices as it ploughed through her soft, hot folds.

“Wait,” Rupali gasped when Trish tried to go deeper. “Let me shave you first. We can be late to the party.”

Trish opened her eyes. Too nervous to speak, she bit her lower lip and nodded.

“Great, give me a moment.” Rupali was all business again, transforming into a whirlwind of movement and grace that belied her long limbs. From her drawer, she pulled a foil sachet of sex lube, a miniature manicure kit containing a tiny pair of nail scissors, and most improbably, a disposable razor.

Trish gaped at the little collection.

“Girl Scout,” Rupali explained. She pushed Trish back onto the settee, pulled her bottom to the edge, and stripped off her cotton panties in one swift movement.

With Rupali kneeling in front of her, Trish had a moment of second thought, holding her knees tightly together as the other girl placed her hands between her thighs, smiling and nodding encouragement as she applied pressure to draw them apart. Her last reserves melted away and she relaxed, allowing the dark-haired seductress to open her legs wide and expose the throbbing, swollen lips of her sex.

“Oh, this is not so bad.” Rupali combed the soft red curls with her fingers and stroked over the wisps covering her outer labia. She deftly snipped away the longer hair with nail scissors and then made Trish gasp when she smeared lube over the remaining stubble and massaged it thoroughly to coat the base of each hair.

Working with long smooth strokes of the razor, she shaped a small triangle about half an inch above the top of Trish’s slit, and then shaved the rest clean. She moved down to her swollen labia and slipped a finger inside to pull back the lips and raise the hairs on the most sensitive inner edges. When she was done, she unconsciously put that finger in her mouth to lick off the juices that had been running so freely.

“Oh my God.” Her dark eyes widened in shock and pleasure, and she licked all the way down to the knuckle and around the webbing. “You taste like … something … pomegranates! It’s pomegranates!”

“What!?”

“Oh, Christ, that is divine.” She plunged her middle finger back through Trish’s slit, eliciting a surprised shriek from the redhead, and then did the same with her own pussy on the index finger.

“Here,” she said, offering them both to Trish’s lips. “Taste.”

“No!” Trish cried in shock, but with more than a little curiosity.

“What? Have you seriously never tasted yourself?”

“No!” Trish felt a flush warm her face. “Never.” She warded off the proffered taste-test.

“Stop being a baby. Go on. You’ll thank me.”

Curiosity overwhelmed embarrassment and she brought Rupali’s hand cautiously to her mouth. She could smell the musky aroma of sex on her fingers and felt a delicious shiver of anticipation. Closing her lips around the middle finger, she tasted herself first. It was heady and rich and nothing at all like anchovies—which she hated—and which popular opinion told her was how it was supposed to taste. She supposed she could taste pomegranates. Maybe. Sucking the last of her own scent from Rupali’s middle finger, she withdrew it with a small pop and held the next one before her mouth.

“C’mon. It’s not as nice as you, but it’s not poison.”

Blood pounded in her ears like jungle drums. Trish could feel more of her own juices welling and coating her hairless pussy lips. She opened with a shuddering breath to taste her friend’s sex, closed her eyes, and then placed just the fingertip on her tongue, prolonging the anticipation. With that single taste, she was sold. She folded her lips and tongue around Rupali’s finger with a low, animal moan; never in her life had she tasted anything so raw, primal, and sexy.

Gently sucking and swirling, she tasted salt and honeysuckle, extra virgin olive oil, and something else she couldn’t identify, but which sang in her mouth and made her nipples tingle and her clitoris buzz. If she had to give it a name, she would say it was the taste of sex—not the taste of having sex, or the sweet afterglow of sex—but of sex yet to come, a potential future as yet unfulfilled. It was fresh and ripe, potent, and strangely virginal.

“Oh God,” Trish breathed. “That’s what I want.”

“Are you sure you want to be late to the party?” Rupali took her hand and helped her stand up.

“What party?” A wave of passion building inside her finally crested and broke, washing away the last of her reticence. Still holding Rupali’s hand, she drew closer, lifting her chin and parting her lips to signal her intent. Rupali tilted her head to the side and met Trish’s kiss, her lips small, moist and supple—so unlike a man’s lips, which was all Trish was used to.

Her nerve endings celebrated the new sensation of kissing a woman. She closed her eyes and allowed her hands to chart the foreign territory of Rupali’s body. Her muscle-memory—accustomed to a masculine physique—told her that this was all wrong, but her hard nipples and soaking pussy lips sang with the news that it was not just right, it was wonderfully, breathtakingly right. She moulded her fingers over Rupali’s neat, round bottom and traced them into her tiny, tight waist. She could feel firm breasts pressing against her own through their uniforms, but it wasn’t enough; she needed the feeling of skin on skin.

Panting and kissing with mounting vigour, Trish whispered, “Please,” as she unbuttoned Rupali’s uniform and, “Yes, God, yes,” when the other girl responded in turn. Open from neck to hem, the mini-dresses hung like coats, and Trish pulled the lapels open further to gorge herself on Rupali’s naked perfection.

Tentatively at first, she touched her body to Rupali’s, relishing the hard points of her nipples, which with each tiny movement traced arcs and swirls of erotic sensation on the sensitive undersides of her own breasts. When their bellies touched, Trish stopped breathing and focussed all of her attention on her pussy. It was shaved and open and soaking wet, and now just a few millimetres from the moist, pink folds of Rupali’s. She felt the slightest brush of friction as their tiny thatches met. So close now. It may have been her imagination, but she thought she could feel the heat radiating from Rupali’s molten core.

And then their lips touched. Instinctively, both women arched to increase the contact at their steaming centres. Whimpering with passion and desperation, Trish moved from the hips, brushing her engorged inner folds against Rupali’s, feeling the wetness transfer both ways to coat their smooth outer lips with a mixture of their naturally perfumed lubrication.

Unable to resist any longer, she grasped Rupali’s naked bottom in both hands and ground their pussies together, opening herself up and scissoring smooth lips into her own. Wonderful barrages of ecstasy exploded through her womanhood when Rupali touched down on her clitoris, and she rejoiced at the soft cries in her ear that told her she was doing the same.

“Let me do you,” Trish breathed, reluctantly breaking contact on her sex, which was screaming for the sweet release of orgasm. She kissed down Rupali’s body, her neck, the points of her clavicle and the tops of her breasts, before the brunette stopped her, drawing her back.

Rupali’s breath came in ragged gasps. “We’ll do it together.” She turned Trish around and held her from behind, one arm crossed over her flat stomach to gently cup a breast, the other reaching down to close over her sex. She kissed the hollow of Trish’s neck and nestled the tip of her middle finger in her entrance. With a gentle, guiding touch, she lowered them both to the floor and supported Trish from behind as she laid back, folding the lapels of her dress open like a blanket, laying out her naked form like a splendid buffet to feast upon.

Trish looked up into the face of her friend—the beautiful female face who in a few breathless moments would be the first woman to taste her. To taste her, to take her, and—she knew this like she knew her own name—to drive her to an orgasm so intense she would never feel its equal from penetrative sex. Instinctively she drew her knees up to angle her pussy towards Rupali, and with gymnastic flexibility, she opened them almost flat to the floor.

Now pointing straight up, the soft open cup of her entrance began to pool with juices. Glistening at first, it was soon slick with her essence, and by the time Rupali had kissed from Trish’s breathless lips to her small breasts—pausing to tease and suck her nipples, and to offer her own full breasts to Trish’s eager lips—it was brimming with sweet nectar.

As Rupali kissed down over her body, Trish craned her neck up to kiss and trace the lines of her stomach and feel the muscles flutter beneath her soft lips. She watched entranced as Rupali’s wet opening passed over her eyes, her intoxicating scent filling Trish’s senses. Then it stopped, open and ready, an inch above her breathless lips.

There was a frozen moment when nothing happened, as if both girls were waiting for a signal to begin, and then just as Trish opened her mouth, she felt the tip of a strange and beautiful tongue tracing over her own freshly shaved lips. She followed the same movements, working down one side of Rupali’s pussy, tasting her own smeared scent alongside the more potent, intoxicating perfume almost dripping from Rupali’s entrance.

The exquisite softness was unlike anything Trish had imagined; it was unlike anything she could have imagined. Her limited experience with oral sex extended to a few pleasant but nervous episodes of cock sucking, where she was more concerned about the boy taking liberties and choking her than she was with delivering finely controlled pleasure to her partner. With a man, she wasn’t exactly sure what she should be doing. Apart from the one universal ‘no teeth’ rule, they seemed to like pretty much everything.

But this? This! This was indescribably different. Not that she was going lesbo any time soon, but compared to this, pleasuring a pussy with a cock was like peeling an apple with a chainsaw. And better, she knew exactly what to do because Rupali was copying her; everything she did, she felt the result in her own pussy in real time. Licking, sucking, kissing, probing, hard and soft, slow and fast. It was like the most perfect shopping experience where you could try on ten different pairs of shoes at once to see which one looks best, and better, which one feels best.

She became more adventurous and moved from the wonderful softness of Rupali’s pussy lips to her glistening, hot slit, where that intoxicating, sexual perfume was strongest. Starting with gentle probes above and to the sides of Rupali’s clitoris, she teased with soft strokes, working back and forth in slow arcs and establishing a rhythm with which Rupali quickly synchronised. In a surreal moment of transcendence, so perfectly timed was Rupali’s feedback that Trish felt as though she was licking her own pussy. Far from revolting her (which would have been her natural reaction), it felt overwhelmingly erotic and sent her heart racing even faster. She was normally cautious with clitoral stimulation, but in her breathless passion she grazed her tongue lightly over Rupali’s hard love-button, eliciting a muffled shriek of excitement from the brunette, quickly followed by a reciprocal stroke over her own clitoris.

She expected a profound sensation, and boy, did she get it. Far from the normal sobering shock—like being pinched or doused with cold water—Rupali’s tongue revved her like a race-tuned engine on the starting grid—raucous, animal and powerful, but smooth and emotive at the same time. With sparks of pleasure firing and lighting up her core, Trish’s excitement stepped up to a new level, and she felt the first stirrings of an orgasm tingling in her thighs.

She arched her back and gave voice to gasping cries of pleasure to let Rupali know she was close to coming, and redoubled her efforts on her friend’s pussy in the hope they might climax together. Hardening the web of muscles in her tongue, she probed the other girl’s tight opening, maintaining contact on her clitoris with her lower lip while she strained to go deeper.

Rupali’s thigh muscles bunched against her ears, and Trish realised the brunette was at least as close to coming as she herself. She almost had time to worry about being left behind when she felt Rupali’s mouth close fully over her sensitive entrance and force her open with the pointed tip of her tongue. The casual, ambling approach of her own orgasm became a full, frenzied gallop when Rupali drove her tongue inside. The thick base stretched her wide, while the tip danced, pressing and exploring—seemingly in every direction at once—in a way that a cock never could.

Trish shrieked with passion and genuine surprise as the orgasm reared up and crashed over her. At one moment, it was just a contraction in her core, and then it became a light-speed explosion, igniting every nerve in a blinding flash. Like fireworks, as the last embers of one sky-burst began to fade, another one—with different shape, colour and intensity—would tear through her again, contracting her muscles and grinding her pussy into Rupali’s merciless tongue.

Unconsciously copying her actions, Trish dived deeply into Rupali’s sweet centre, marvelling at the exquisite pressure of the brunette’s tight canal squeezing her insistent tongue. For the first time she truly began to appreciate the unique ecstasy that a guy experiences driving his cock into the silken embrace of a woman. As her own orgasm began to abate, Trish felt Rupali convulse and her hips rock downwards, encouraging her to thrust deeper, even though she was being squeezed out by powerful contractions.

Finally coming down, muscles flexing and relaxing, Rupali kissed the last of Trish’s juices from her freshly shaven lips before turning to embrace her, their breasts pressing together as they whispered breathless gratitude into each other’s ears.

After a minute of quiet kissing, Trish realised the costume party had already started and their friends would be getting impatient. Disentangling their long limbs, both girls got up and began setting themselves to rights, buttoning dresses and touching up makeup as they stole smiling glances at each other in the mirror.

Feeling woozy, Trish wound her hair into a bun and pinned on her pillbox hat. She pulled at her ludicrously short hem and looked at her beautiful companion standing beside her in the mirror.

“We should probably put our panties back on.”

“Probably,” Rupali agreed with a blithe wave of her long fingers, and then she slipped back into her high heels and turned to the door. “You coming?”

Not yet. But I get the feeling I will be (again!) before very long.


© 2016 Belinda LaPage. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.

About the Author Belinda LaPage

Belinda LaPage lives and works in Sydney, Australia. Writing is a labour of love for her, but the life of a tortured artist is not, so for now it is simply a part time affair, and a pathway to affording more of the wrong shoes. She enjoys the Sydney beaches, time with friends, and spending lunch time in a café sneakily writing erotica in the midst of strangers.

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