Dangerously Close to Bearable, Chapter 6 (cw explicit sex)
Let’s get nasty (cw: explicit sex)
The date went well, don’t you think?
I’m bounding back to the car, holding Erica’s hand, knee-pain be damned. I’m about to fuck my best friend and nothing is going to stop me!
The car unlocks as we get close. In a whirl of motion, we’re belted in, and I’m turning out of the parking lot before I’m consciously aware of what’s going on.
“You know,” Erica says, her chest heaving with breath, “we can…just do it…back there…”
“We’re almost 40 and you want to fuck in the backseat?” I ask, unable to hide my indignity. "The seats are too narrow for my ass, there’s a comfy bed waiting for us, and you want to do it in the car? Absolutely not.
“Besides, we tried that before, remember? You got cum everywhere.”
“Not sure you realize, but you don’t have to worry about that anymore.”
My eyes bug out—part irritation, part imagining what her pussy looks like. “If you really need some action, just climb back there and jerk off, I don’t care.”
Erica is unbelted and clambering back before I finish the sentence.
She shimmies out of her underwear and pulls her skirt up. It’s too dark to make out the details, but I can see her hand resting between her spread legs.
“My sexy chauffeur…” she breathes, and then her hand makes little circles, causing her to whine and moan.
“Where was this freak fifteen years ago?” I ask, sorely wishing I had the courage to stop in a parking lot.
“Admonishing you for marrying Robert,” Erica says, no mirth in her voice.
Fine with me.
“Holy shit you’re right,” I say. So many years.
Erica snapped her fingers. “Now shut up, you’re killing the mood.”
My brakes almost squeal from me smashing the pedal. "I’m driving, honey. I AM the mood." Whoa, forceful.
A sound of approval. “Damn right you are." And she gets down to it.
I speed just a little, angle the rear view to take her in. I glance at it as I drive, stare when I get to stop lights.
“Don’t watch,” she says. “Just listen.”
Okay. My eyes are front. I move the mirror back. I let Erica have her fun. I want to stop, fucking god I want to stop and let her guide me through how to make her cum, but I want her in my bed, and this is a good consolation prize for making myself wait.
She moans and coos as I careen down the road, hoping the construction hasn’t closed the lanes yet.
“I’ve thought about you…for so long…”
“So excited to taste you…”
“I can smell you…” I think she might have made that one up, but I wasn’t going to ruin the moment.
“Do you know how…long…I’ve wanted this…ugh!” She groans, the shock of orgasm ripping through her.
“Keep going,” I say. “Touch yourself until I’m in my driveway.”
“Oh, oh my, finding our backbone?”
“I can get gas, or find a drive-thru, really draw it out.”
“You wouldn’t.”
I inhabit Mama Amy as fully as I can. “Do you want to try me?” I retort, stern but loving, edged with menace—just for Erica.
“No, Ma’am,” she answers, and the chorus continues behind me.
As it grows louder and more insistent, I realize…she’s mine.
I don’t own her or possess her. I just…have her, and she’s letting me do this.
How can I make this more fun?
“I’m exiting early,” I say. “I want to, uh, take my time.” That was properly dominant, right?
“Yes…”
Cool. “I don’t drive good girls around,” I say. The sentence feels weird, but not…bad? “Carry on until we get home, and keep making noise. If you stop I’ll have to run an errand," I say, low and growly, "and I really don’t want you to make this trip any longer."
“Yes, Amy…” and she groans again, softer this time. “For you…”
Yes, for me, all for me…
Holy shit I’m about to fuck. A girl. Who’s rubbing one out in my backseat.
Erica stops, and I inhale through my nose, ready to make a curbside order at the nearest drugstore, when another groan of climax fills the car, and the slightest scent of something sharp, and very slightly astringent, tickles my nose. Did someone…or…I breathe more deeply, and bodies appear unbidden in my mind.
Sex. Her.
"You’re making me so wet, Amy…"
I’m doing 50 in a 35 and hoping no one’s around.
***
We practically kick down the door to get inside. We’ve waited long enough for this, I’m not going to slow down now.
As the door closes, our outer clothing is off, tossed casually aside. I take her hand and lead her up the stairs. She’s attached to me, kissing my shoulders, arms around my waist, threatening to make us fall down and break our necks.
But once we’re the top, I pull her close and kiss her, wrapping her up in my arms, walking backwards through the hall, hoping desperately that nothing was left on the floor. She won’t stop kissing me, and I never want her to.
Ever.
The door is already open, thank god, and we spin as we finally make our way to the promised land.
I detach myself and step over to the lamp. I turn the lights off. I return to her, and we unhook our bras, pull off my panties, and then, finally, take off our shoes.
Amy still has her stockings on. Her legs are so silky.
Crawling onto the bed, I sit in front of Erica, naked and catching the light from the window. She’s amazing. Her tits are perfect, because of course they are. She’s immaculate, because I have no other word to describe her.
She’s all I want.
With my saggy tits, my little apron belly, stretch marks and love handles, not the same Amy she remembers.
“Does it have to be so dark?” She asks.
“This date has been so fucking perfect I don’t want to ruin it with my naked body,” I respond.
“Amy Denton, when have I ever hated your body?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Who cares? Where are you?” Erica asks, giggling. “I’ll find you.” She pretends to be blind.
Her hands “find” my legs. “There you are.” She rests her palms on my thighs, and presses her fingers in. She purrs. “Soft. So soft.” She licks her lips. They glisten a little in the dim. “Do you moisturize?”
“Sorry.” I’m going to try and not say that too much. “And yes. I do. Is it too much?”
“Sorry? Too much? This?” And she squeezes a bit more, releases, runs her hands up my legs. “Never.”
“Really?”
“Babe, I wouldn’t be here,” she says, one hand now resting between my thighs, so close, so fucking close, “if I didn’t want you.”
And one finger dips below, brushing…down there. The words won’t form in my head.
Erica has a pussy—which I won’t know what to do with—but I have euphemisms.
Her finger pushes in, enough to press against my clit.
She’s touching my clit. More action than I’ve had in years.
My breath shudders.
Then I smell something. Strong, pungent, bodily.
Holy fucking shit. I’m wet. I’m so fucking wet. I can feel how easily she’s touching me, covering her fingertips.
“I missed that smell so fucking bad. It’s perfect.”
She barely did anything and she’s set me off harder than Robert ever did.
Erica climbs onto the bed, pressing her body against mine as she moves up, her angles meeting my curves. She pauses to take my left nipple in her mouth, sucking and nibbling. I reach down to her head, run my fingers through her hair, lightly clench a handful. She gives a satisfied moan, sucking harder.
Her hand slips down, teasing my hole. I gasp and giggle, and for my troubles I get three fingers in my pussy, all the way to the knuckle.
“UNGH!” The sound is ugly.
But Erica’s face is full of awe. She lets my tit free. “Were you this easy before?” She asks, smiling.
“Shut…up…keep doing…that,” I wheeze. I can feel the pressure, the pain of being opened up, how it makes me breathe slower, relax. And as my lower body loosens, her fingers go deeper, and the pressure builds. She’s fucking me, filling me up, opening me wider, making me warmer, wetter. My diaphragm is already straining from the effort.
And, flat on my back, legs spread, open and vulnerable…I realize I need to be in the best spot possible for whatever calf-cramping climax she’s going to give me.
Gathering my courage, I sit up, scoot into my pile of pillows. If she’s gonna fuck me ragged, I’m gonna be comfortable. It forces me to disconnect, but she’ll be back soon enough—my cunt always had that effect on her.
Whoa. Goddamn, I’m worked up.
"Where’d you go?" Erica asks, crawling into my space again.
"Funny, real funny."
"It’s not sex with Amy without…nine pillows?" She touches my feet, kisses them. It tickles. Her hands then reach up my calves. I open my legs to see her eyeing me like a meal.
“If you turn the light on, you’ll see exactly where you need to be.”
Her eyes go wide. “Are you sure?”
“No, but I don’t fucking care. I need to see you,” I say, with a bit of force. “Please,” I add, quietly.
She smiles. “Since you asked so nicely…” Erica leans over. There is some noise of her fumbling with the lamp.
Then, like magic, the room is flooded with low, soft orange light. Erica returns to my field of vision.
I see the Was and Is mashed together in perfect harmony. The too-narrow hips I teased her over, now full and rounded. The toned tummy now softer, with the sweetest little pooch forming under her belly button. Those arms, as strong as ever, behind her head, stretching her up and up. Her tits, free of her bra, uncannily perky, a mix of mouth-watering desire and absolute jealousy swirling in my chest.
And she looks at me, and for a second, I see her, then, now, tomorrow…forever, maybe—if I play my cards right.
Do I want to try that?
I kinda do—
“If you’re done worshiping me, would you like me to continue?” Erica asks, our noses touching.
“Kiss me.”
“Again?”
I bring my hand behind her neck, grip it, and pull her mouth to mine.
“Please.” Our lips touch, and she opens for me. Our tongues touch, dance together, and then…holy shit we’re playing tonsil hockey, just like old times—not exactly. Erica has no stubble, her face is smoother than mine.
We stay there, trying to devour one another, when Erica’s hand makes its way back to my pussy, and fills me back up with her fingers. I gasp and groan at the insertion once again, but this time I push my hips against her, my need absolutely overwhelming conscious thought. Erica won’t let my mouth go. I fake trying to pull away, making her work to keep me close, pushing herself closer to me, further inside me. I want her. I want to be sure she won’t let me go.
I want this woman to split me in two and make me beg for the privilege.
I lift my legs, bring my knees up, spread as wide as I can go, and pray my weak core has enough juice to stay here until I cum.
Erica reads my body, and leans up, her shoulders holding my legs in place. It still hurts, but now the pain is just between my legs.
And what a fucking pain it is. That pressure, the kind that I only got with my own hand for the last decade, is welling up between my legs, a molten heat demanding release.
I start to whine, my mouth pleading into hers. I want her to slow down, draw it out, make it last.
But she doesn’t. She’s laughing. I can hear the giggles through her kiss, our voices mingling in our mouths.
She keeps kissing me so she can’t hear me say, “slow down,” or, “hold on”. And I let her take me, because I needed her, and I needed this, and she felt so good.
Erica looked at me like the last decade didn’t exist.
That tenderness, that love, that affection…is what makes me tip over.
My voice got louder and my whines more pitiful, and Erica’s voice just absorbs my submission like it’s oxygen, and her tone changes to encouragement, helping me, begging me, a chorus of groaned yeses into my throat, until I can’t hold it back any more.
The ache of orgasm breaks through. I feel myself grip her fingers, so tight I worry I might break them, screaming, the sound leaking out, my arms pulling her close, our chests touching, the waves rolling out from between my legs, convulsing pulses giving me full body twitches, my skin flushing white hot.
Each hit makes my eyes water, just a little more, until the last of them renders me inert, and I begin to cry.
"Amy," Erica says, pulling away, "are you okay?"
I had forgotten that sex could feel that good, and to do it now, with her, here…it feels like more than I deserved.
"Yes. No. I’m…I’m…"
Words won’t come.
So I sob, softly, then loudly, and Erica, seeing this, watching me break…holds me.
She rolls to my side and pulls me in. I weep into her chest, her hand brushing out my hair. "You were amazing," she whispers.
"You—you—you say that to…" no, I don’t want to lie—to her, to myself, to anyone. "Thank you."
My tears are falling between her perfectly sculpted boobs, and she’s warm, her hand smells of me and my need, and Erica is cooing affirmations, kissing my scalp, holding me together…
Just like old times.
And we both knew that when Amy Denton cried—
***
She used to get frisky and thank her designated sadness partner, physically.
Now? She apparently fell asleep without her Ambien, and finally got her eight hours.
With bonus beautiful bed buddy, tangled up in the sheets.
Who forgot to take off her makeup, leaving a smudgy mess on my pillows.
Baby steps, I say to myself. Nobody’s perfect their first roll in the hay.
I lean over and kiss her cheek. She mumbles and curls up with a pillow.
The beauty sleep obsession makes sense now. My smile is small, but only because I’m tired.
Erica is peaceful, eyes closed, chest rising and falling. I want to hold her forever, but I need my coffee. Confessing my feelings could wait, and I could sweeten the deal by offering a possible…girlfriend…a cup of mid-shelf drip percolated coffee.
Padding out of the bedroom, light peeking around the blackout curtains, I pull some panties and a cami out of a pile of…clean laundry. Down the stairs, my knees didn’t feel so fucking stiff.
The house felt so full now, just from this one person. Life was…dangerously close to bearable.
I send a droplet emoji to Zoey and Betty. Within seconds they have both heart reacted, along with hearts in the bi pride colors.
“Maybe I might be pansexual,” I text.
“That fucking color scheme?” Zoey texts. “You would fucking do that.”
“Feelings before labels, girl, but I’m proud of you,” Betty says.
Gay lady cheering section! I love it, and tell them so.
“Not gay,” they say, identically.
Okay…bisexual. I’m bisexual.
My stomach flips, and my body feels like I’m in free fall. The coffee prep keeps me centered. Water, filter, scoops. There we go. I hit the button and step away.
The newspaper is on the porch. Still subscribed. One of the few nice things Robert left around. I thumb through it as the coffee brews. I know I need to stay informed, but there are better things to pay attention to right now.
Like the stirring woman in my bedroom. I only hear movement. No steps. Still in bed. Still naked, all that skin still exposed for my touch.
Which means…
I’m frantically searching articles to tell me what to do. It’s porn and Reddit threads, and penises.
Shit. My impromptu morning sex session is going to be ruined by my inability to figure out how a—
Neovagina. It’s a pussy, with a hole…and a clit. And I could just ask if I was that worried.
"Neovagina," I mumble to myself. It feels cold in my mouth—the word.
The real thing, however…
And, as if I had dreamt the last thirty minutes, I’m suddenly back in the bedroom, leaning sexily against the doorframe, looking at Erica, exposed from the waist up.
She wasn’t new, or old, or better or…she could never be that…and she wasn’t different.
Erica was the same, the person I knew then, but now herself. A little stab of guilt wraps around my stomach—what did I miss? What support did I not give her? What if I could have helped her sooner? What—
“Amy, love?” The pet name hits me like a bolt of lightning, and I look at her again, rolled over, leaning against the headboard, with that mischievous little half-smile, when we’d have our…
“Morning after head exchange?” I squeak.
Her eyebrows, her perfectly shaped eyebrows, go up. “Feeling brave this morning?” She bites her lip, the smile deepens.
“Oh…I, uh, I’m…” My body aches, it shakes, my skin stipples with sweat. How thoroughly am I about to crash and burn?
No. No I’m not. Erica is who she’s always been, now it’s just easier to see. She’s still got that little scar on her shoulder, the same curve to her neck. Her jaw and her hairline are new—and also so much nicer than mine—but her nose, even altered, has that same bump in the bridge. And her eyes…wide, full of wonder, and love, and excitement. All at seeing me in the doorway.
And I knew how to make love to Erica before. It’s not about what’s between her legs. Mostly. It’s about bodies that hunger, that need, that have to be together, no matter what.
My feet are pulling me to her as I’m in my reverie, and by the time I’m conscious, I have her pinned to the headboard, arms wrapped around me, legs spread, my hand resting on her mound. My head is buried in her neck, kissing it, inhaling her morning after scent, memory flooding into my head, my chest, between my legs.
“Eager…god…Amy…wait,” she breathes.
Oh no. I pull away. “Is everything alright? Did I do something wrong?”
She laughs. “No, not at all. Do you have any lube?”
Don’t panic! You got this. Yes! “Yeah, totally, hold on,” I say, disconnecting from her and grabbing the nondescript clear plastic bottle from the nightstand.
I return to her, squeeze a little on my fingers.
Erica smiles, and her breathing quickens. “Are you ready?”
Returning to my spot between her legs, I lean forward to hungrily kiss her neck; then descend, exploring with my mouth, sucking on her nipple, nibbling, making her gasp. Down her chest, her stomach, her belly button, down, down, down to that hard little nub, looking swollen and extremely familiar.
“Are you…are you…about to…”
I look up at her, letting her enjoy the view. “It’s the head exchange, right?” I ask, hoping my need masks my fear. “Don’t be afraid to…tell me what to do. You were always the dominant one.”
And I cross the space, taking her clit into my mouth, running my tongue over it. My lube-covered fingers go in, two of them, and her moan is the greatest thing I’ve ever heard.
She’s warm. Her skin is soft. Sweat and exertion and no shower assault my senses, making my own pussy ache harder than the night before.
She’s mine, for the moment. Her moaning, her gasping, how her hips jump when I lick her just so. She’s in my mouth, and I’m making love to my friend.
The only thing I remember is that cumming can be tough, so I try to just make her feel good. I taste the skin, let her clit feel my tongue, my teeth, my lips. Kiss her, tease her, try to find a rhythm—mouth stuff never used to need a hand before.
Erica doesn’t seem to notice my lack of skill. “Fuck…fuck…ah ah ah…Amy…” she breathes. She says, “Amy,” in her old vocal register. “Fuck,” she says, in that sweet tenor voice. She clears her throat, and then giggles. “Amy, you caught me off guard.”
I say nothing, just push a groan of assent into her, pressing my tongue flat against her clit. She rolls her hips up, and I push into the movement.
My fingerfucking is going well, but the one piece of info I took from my panic-reading was that Neovaginas don’t get wet. Lube is important!
I pull my fingers out, expecting to just see the clear slickness of the lube, but there’s something else. It’s thick, just a little milky, and it is definitely not lube.
Wait.
“Everything okay down there?” Erica asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re…you’re, um…there’s something on my fingers.” I taste it.
Oh.
Oh.
Mmmm.
“I’m making you feel good.” Not a question. Not a hedge. Not equivocation. A statement. A declaration.
“Yes…you are…Amy…” Erica closes her eyes, and starts to whine, like I did last night.
So I pick up the pace. Don’t force it, but don’t shy away. Do it. Fucking do it, make her keep feeling good, like she did for you.
My mouth covers her, sucks it in, seals it off, and my tongue starts to work her over like I know what I’m doing.
“That feels…so fucking good…” she gasps.
I suck, I lick, I worship, my mouth giving her the exact same lazy Sunday morning gift as always, but…no.
There’s no difference here.
She’s grunting, groaning, gasping. Begging. Her hips tighten and tense, and Erica squirms, almost like she’s trying to escape.
But I wrap my free arm around her, pull her back to the bed, and push my mouth forward, like I’m about to kiss her pubic bone.
A guttural cry looses itself from her throat, over and over. Her hips spasm, my fingers get wetter, a sticky mess pouring down my hand onto the sheets.
I stay attached through every bucking of her hips, each scream of climax, each wailing of my name, while I hold her close, so close.
Close as ever. Closer, even.
Because I think I’m in love.
***
I know I’m in love.
I know it when she holds me after making me cum, again (I don’t cry this time, but I do swear. A lot).
I know it when I kiss her, taste myself on her lips, and realize I want it over and over.
And I know it when I pull her close and she says, “I missed you.”
And I know, more clearly than anything I’ve ever known, that I can’t ever let her say that again.
***
“This is a big deal. Are you ready?” Erica asks.
“I think I can handle it.”
I get the spatula under the egg, scrape it gently, then gingerly flip it.
Yolk intact.
My first over-easy.
Today is full of miracles.
***
Toast, bacon, coffee, orange juice.
“We need to replenish, that was some good fucking,” Erica says through a mouthful of food.
The more things change…
“Cover your mouth,” I say, laughing. “Can’t believe I have to talk to you like the boys.”
“HRT doesn’t give you manners.” She smiles that smile.
“Does every girl get that excuse?”
“Just the ones I lo—I love.” She blushes.
“I love you, too.”
We take a few more bites in silence, letting the word fill the space.
I go first. “Is it that easy?”
“If we want it to be.”
Questions flood my head almost instantly. Robert. The kids. My parents. Dating. Dinners. Sleeping over.
For once, I shut myself up, and reach over to Erica, squeezing her hand. “Then let’s do it. I want you. All of you. And I…I think—“
“I’ve always loved you? Yeah. Me too.”
I look up at her. She’s crying.
I don’t try to hold back the tears. I just let her hold my hand.
“Is it forever?” I ask.
“It’s now,” Erica says. “But maybe. You already figured out how to get me off, you’re ahead of pretty much everyone.”
I roll my eyes.
My phone dings. Five times. It’s Aiden.
“Hey mom! I got my recital pieces recorded! Here’s my takes so far.” And there are five videos of my sweet little A.B. Baby, shoulders back, chest out, feet flat on the floor.
“Hey,” Erica, “is that…”
I turn to her and nod, with tears in my eyes. “He recorded his recital pieces for me.”
“What’s his vocal part?”
“Tenor.”
Erica takes the phone from me. “Well, we need to listen, and he needs feedback from a classically trained vocalist. Right?”
Oh my god. Oh my god. She’s amazing. “He’ll need proof of your credentials, first. Can you grab your diploma?”
“Sec.” And she darts up the stairs.
Whoosh. A photo of her master’s diploma. In her name.
“Hey, I have a friend who wants to listen. She knows her stuff.” I send the photo. “Is that okay?”
“YES YES YES”
“Find a speaker, Erica, love!” I shout. “He wants a jury!”
“You got it!”
She’s everything I thought I’d lost.
She’s everything I didn’t think I deserved.
She’s amazing and I never want to let go of her.
I hope she feels the same way.
And that’s the novella! Stay tuned for the next story.
Thank you for reading!