often did) outclassed. Curly red hair and round face, eyes the color of dun pudding, broad almost mannish shoulders, a nearly obscene curve to her hips, and a pair of cantaloupes on her chest that could not be bound up into a properly unassuming size no matter how tight the corset she tried to wear ... There was a rough kind of prettiness to her, she supposed, but nothing that such a refined woman as Cecilia should find attractive. Certainly not...
But there she was, kissing Trista's throat. It seemed nothing less than an impossible dream!
Kisses.
And tantalizing touches. Cecilia's silk-clad fingers rubbed at her breasts through the lambskin flight jack, slow sensual circles that trailed down to Trista's hips. There, they urged her to lean over, and reached around to the tiny curve of her bottom, observing the arc through sensuous stroke. Cecilia took a firm hold as she moved from nuzzling Trista's throat to giving her a full kiss on the lips.
Trista made a startled squeak; Cecilia's slender tongue found its way into her mouth, and more slow circles followed.
No dance of tongues, this was a kind of lovemaking, and it set the top of Trista's head into the stratosphere.
Lambskin-clad hands caressed Cecilia's breasts, and the girl moaned softly, her beautiful eyes closing at the sensation.
The kiss broke, and Cecilia stared into Trista's eyes with a hunger. "Such a deliciously filthy engineer you are," she said, making the words into a lover's poem, before a nearly feral, frenzied expression filled her face, and she came in for still more kisses.
The pair of shrill whistles might have been Trista's internal thermometers sounding off extreme temperatures, so it seemed only natural that Cecilia should spread her jack, should open her shirt, should bare her corset and skin. It seemed only right to undo Cecilia's blouse, one slow button at a time, each release eliciting still more passion from the boundless well inside that delicate-seeming woman. Not so delicate at all. Her teeth ran along Trista's shoulder, while those silk gloves unfastened the corset, and when it fell free, Trista sucked in fresh air as though she had never really breathed before. Tonight, the cool autumn air was flavored with honey and musk, an earthy perfume to be certain.
Cecilia pulled Trista's hand along her leg, under the skirts, slow and strong and guiding her up and up. Kisses did not distract from the pleasure of touching garters and then the bare skin beyond. The lambskin gloves would be soft on that skin, Trista thought, but that was not enough for Cecilia.
Further up, to the crux, to a golden warmth as yet unknown, hidden beneath a gauzy veil of lace, easily shoved aside.
Cecilia plunged two of Trista's fingers inside her slick sex, shaking and gasping and then moaning the first sibilant syllable of Trista's name....
And Trista moved her fingers slowly, in and out, using her thumb to pressure the sweet place, slow rubbing—still more circles! Love was a circle!—and taking delight in Cecilia's spasms at her touch. Now it was Cecilia, earthy and dominant to this point, who was at a loss to control her limbs. The golden-haired girl now gazed into Trista's face with a kind of naïve wonder and begged for more, faster , and it was Trista who held the power to acquiesce or deny. Trista, who leaned in to kiss as she played below, Trista who—
Trilling whistles penetrated the clouds in her head, puncturing the pleasant, passion-induced miasma.
Oh , thought Trista, dear .
The buildings were no longer below them, but towering around. All three emergency whistles wailed like unwatched teapots, and a new kind of flutter found its way into Trista's heart. Fear, this was.
"Don't stop," Cecilia whispered, "please!"
"But we're going to crash ."
"Then let us crash as lovers crash!" Cecilia grasped Trista's wrist, to keep her hand firmly within her quim.
There was no helping it, Trista supposed. Crash they would, but if she could reach the
But there she was, kissing Trista's throat. It seemed nothing less than an impossible dream!
Kisses.
And tantalizing touches. Cecilia's silk-clad fingers rubbed at her breasts through the lambskin flight jack, slow sensual circles that trailed down to Trista's hips. There, they urged her to lean over, and reached around to the tiny curve of her bottom, observing the arc through sensuous stroke. Cecilia took a firm hold as she moved from nuzzling Trista's throat to giving her a full kiss on the lips.
Trista made a startled squeak; Cecilia's slender tongue found its way into her mouth, and more slow circles followed.
No dance of tongues, this was a kind of lovemaking, and it set the top of Trista's head into the stratosphere.
Lambskin-clad hands caressed Cecilia's breasts, and the girl moaned softly, her beautiful eyes closing at the sensation.
The kiss broke, and Cecilia stared into Trista's eyes with a hunger. "Such a deliciously filthy engineer you are," she said, making the words into a lover's poem, before a nearly feral, frenzied expression filled her face, and she came in for still more kisses.
The pair of shrill whistles might have been Trista's internal thermometers sounding off extreme temperatures, so it seemed only natural that Cecilia should spread her jack, should open her shirt, should bare her corset and skin. It seemed only right to undo Cecilia's blouse, one slow button at a time, each release eliciting still more passion from the boundless well inside that delicate-seeming woman. Not so delicate at all. Her teeth ran along Trista's shoulder, while those silk gloves unfastened the corset, and when it fell free, Trista sucked in fresh air as though she had never really breathed before. Tonight, the cool autumn air was flavored with honey and musk, an earthy perfume to be certain.
Cecilia pulled Trista's hand along her leg, under the skirts, slow and strong and guiding her up and up. Kisses did not distract from the pleasure of touching garters and then the bare skin beyond. The lambskin gloves would be soft on that skin, Trista thought, but that was not enough for Cecilia.
Further up, to the crux, to a golden warmth as yet unknown, hidden beneath a gauzy veil of lace, easily shoved aside.
Cecilia plunged two of Trista's fingers inside her slick sex, shaking and gasping and then moaning the first sibilant syllable of Trista's name....
And Trista moved her fingers slowly, in and out, using her thumb to pressure the sweet place, slow rubbing—still more circles! Love was a circle!—and taking delight in Cecilia's spasms at her touch. Now it was Cecilia, earthy and dominant to this point, who was at a loss to control her limbs. The golden-haired girl now gazed into Trista's face with a kind of naïve wonder and begged for more, faster , and it was Trista who held the power to acquiesce or deny. Trista, who leaned in to kiss as she played below, Trista who—
Trilling whistles penetrated the clouds in her head, puncturing the pleasant, passion-induced miasma.
Oh , thought Trista, dear .
The buildings were no longer below them, but towering around. All three emergency whistles wailed like unwatched teapots, and a new kind of flutter found its way into Trista's heart. Fear, this was.
"Don't stop," Cecilia whispered, "please!"
"But we're going to crash ."
"Then let us crash as lovers crash!" Cecilia grasped Trista's wrist, to keep her hand firmly within her quim.
There was no helping it, Trista supposed. Crash they would, but if she could reach the
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