(F/F, oral, anal, exhibitionism, violence, irrational behavior, bad cooking)
DISCLAIMER: In case the codes above are Greek to you, this is a sex story with lots of good ol' down home sex scenes. If this doesn't interest you, stop reading. If this does interest you, get some popcorn and a drink, put it aside for later, grab your partner or whatever you use when you don't have a partner, and get ready to have some fun.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Even though I use a mental condition as a story device in this tale, I do not think people should be judged by such things and readers should not assume that those who struggle with mental imbalances or social disorders would act in this manner.
It was half past ten in the morning on an early November day, and I had a surprise appointment to keep. I strode down Thirty Second Street in New York City with a purposeful stride in my gait. My clothes were chosen carefully – the dark jacket with a fur collar that Amber had always thought was so sexy and the knee length black boots with two-inch heels. She picked out both items when we went shopping once, telling me that she would always be turned on when I wore them. It was something I counted on for today.
As I walked some people occasionally looked or even leered at me. I was used to stares, mostly because people felt a six-foot tall Asian woman was some kind of oddity, but today part of it was the outfit. I felt a little rush, thinking if they only knew what was underneath this coat. Unfortunately, and all too soon, that rush was taken over by nerves. There was a part of me that knew this whole thing was insane, that I was not thinking clearly, and that if I turned around right now, headed home and took my pills, the pain and anger I was feeling might subside sooner than I thought.
But as I mentioned this was only a very small part of me thinking rationally. The rest was pure temper, a white-hot fire of rage that was saying something along the lines of,
"FUCKING ROTTEN CUNT BITCH WHORE I'M GOING TO KILL THAT STUPID WENCH AND STUFF HER INTO A TOOTHPASTE TUBE AND SQUEEZE HER OUT SLOWLYONTO A BED OF HOT COALS AND WATCH HER WRITHE IN AGONY WHILE I LAUGH!"
Okay, so I tend to get slightly eloquent when I'm angry, probably because I've had plenty of practice. My temper is legendary among my family and friends, and some have joked that my name, Blossom, has more to do with anger rather than botany. I've been seeing psychologists ever since high school, all of them trying to help me control my rage and occasional fits of depression with varying degrees of success. Most have used medication, and at first that seemed like a great cure. But whenever I forget to take my pills the feelings come back ten times stronger than before, mixing with negative memories that fuel my rage even further, and sometimes it all leads me to do things I regret. I haven't taken my pills for several days now, and even in my current state I could tell this was shaping up to be one of those times.
"I heard you stabbed a girl once."
Amber was looking at me sitting on a toilet. We were in a lesbian club called The Litter Box, and I had just run away from a table full of friends, taking refuge in the bathroom and forgetting to close the stall door because I was so upset. Seeing her face made me realize how the dim club lighting hid her beauty. Amber stood there waiting for a response, and even though she had an easygoing air about her, I felt the weight of her stare.
"It was a long time ago," I said. "Back in high school."
The left corner of Amber's mouth came up in a half smile. "I was in high school once. Don't recall stabbing anyone."
Most stall doors are cheap shit and only stay in two positions – locked or open.
I threw the stall door so hard that it actually stuck shut. My eyes struggled to hold back the tears that came with the memories that had been dredged up. I could hear Amber's footsteps as they came up to the door.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Talking always helped me, at least with my psychiatrist. I opened the door. Amber stood there with a concerned look on her face.
"You know," I started, "my mom always said, "What goes around comes around." It was like her credo. Whenever someone did something fucked up, I could just count three seconds and mouth it right along with her 'cause she was that predictable with it." I shook my head. "I'm still waiting to see it really happen."
The story started when I was in high school and a new girl had come to town. She was a beautiful redhead named Heather Pollard, and the moment I saw her I fell in love. Every time I passed her in the hall I felt a rush of excitement, and when I had a class with her I spent all my time stealing glances and daydreaming of being in a relationship with her. It was the kind of thing you did at fifteen when you knew in the back of your mind it would never happen, but you kept hoping and dreaming.
Then it really happened. Heather slipped me a note one day as we were leaving class. It said she had heard rumors about my sexuality and hoped they were true because she was very interested. No words could adequately describe the soar of excitement, the rushing of the blood, the lightheadedness, the feeling that I could jump over a building or run ten miles without losing steam. Bullets would have bounced off of me that afternoon. Following instructions in the note, I met Heather later that day behind a local building and we made out for a while. After that she told me her parents were going out of town for the weekend and I could stay over her place Friday night. Nothing felt real on my walk home that day. What was only a dream had quickly become reality.
When we talked on the phone Heather told me she'd had a girlfriend back home but they broke up after she left. I told her that I'd never been with anyone except myself, but apparently I'm very good because my body was always satisfied. She laughed, which sounded like musical notes to my ears, and said she couldn't wait to show me how much better it is with someone else. When I got to her place that Friday we went to her room and made out for a little while, then she asked me to strip. Heather wanted to watch me masturbate and see how good I was, so she planted herself in a chair in front of the bed. I stood and took off my clothes without ceremony and spread myself on the bed. This all felt crazy, so I sat there for a moment and soaked in the excitement, sitting naked on another girl's bed while she admired my body, about to perform a sexual act with an audience.
With a feather light touch I started running my fingers around my breasts, letting goose bumps raise up at the sensation. I took each nipple between my thumbs and forefingers and gave a squeeze, followed by some caressing and then another pinch. Heather smiled and that sent a wave of electricity through me. My breath started to catch occasionally, and I felt a familiar tingle start to grow south of my belly button. I moved my hands away from my breasts and sent them roaming all over my body – up and down along my sides, down my crotch and over my mound, up and down my upper legs, and over my tummy until I was back up to my breasts. While I did this I sighed and moaned at the sensation, occasionally adding in the same sound I make whenever anything caramel touches my lips.
Heather was enthralled at what I was doing. This meant the time I'd spent sitting in the library reading sex education books and surfing the Internet for lewd stories instead of doing schoolwork had been a proper redirection of my efforts. I'd have to pat myself on the back when my hands weren't so busy. Right now they were teasing my pubic hairs as I spread my legs open, for the first time displaying my most private areas to another human being who didn't have the letters 'MD' after their name.
I slid my fingers along my folds, which were already moist from the full body massage, and used my fingertips to tease the sensitive flesh. Maybe it was the excitement of the moment, or maybe it was the comfort I felt at meeting another lesbian, but I automatically said the words I usually say as soon as my hands touch my pussy. "Hello, lover."
