Wake-up Call – Chapter 23

Taylor's tongue wrestles mine into submission, which I'm pretty sure is a non-trivial part of the appeal that kissing me holds for her.

I would be offended if I didn't enjoy the results so much.

Her legs are straddling me, her weight making sure I can't get up from her bed, and her bed making sure I appreciate my memory foam mattress.

I know, the last thing isn't that romantic, but seriously, the girl needs to splurge on some bare necessities if she insists on living with her father.

I wonder if he would consider I was overstepping if I just gave her a new bed?

[Daniel Hebert unlikely to appreciate furniture with sexual connotations.]

Yeah. I thought so. Well, [you] thought so; I'm mostly preoccupied with a brunette who seems to have been missing me more than I expected.

Which… [nice].

My hands travel over the back of her thoroughly unsexy, long-sleeved, grey pajamas. The almost scratchy feeling of the thick fabric beneath my gloves indicates she's long overdue for a silk upgrade, or, at the very least cotton, so that's yet another excuse to drag her on another shopping trip after our past makeover—which may be the only redeeming quality of this particular set of sleepwear.

Seriously, it is as flattering on her as… her usual clothes.

[Pattern of—]

I know.

Anyway, back to less sartorial matters, Taylor's body is pressing down on me hard enough that I can feel the leather straining to keep my bust as prominent as when I first modeled it in the store (to the delight of the teenager manning the register when I decided to leave it on before buying it), and my hands have finally reached their actual target: Taylor's scalp.

I spread my fingers over it before I dig the tips in a brief massage, and then I [clench.]

Taylor gasps, arching her back away from me under the guide of my tight grasp on her long, wavy, silky, and plenty of other adjectives that basically mean I'm horny and in love, hair. Her eyes are wide, slightly glassy before they focus on mine.

Also, this position makes it so her pelvis is just shy of grinding on mine.

"I'm not always going to let you do as you please, sweetie," I smirk up at her.

She looks at me for a moment before licking her lips and having her eyebrow [try] to do her usual supercilious thing.

"You have both hands busy," she finally says.

And then she grabs the tab of my zipper.

Her hand is right beneath my chin, the back of her thumb just grazing the skin beneath it, her nail resting against my throat.

And my self-control must have slipped, because her eyebrow firms as she regales me with her own smirk.

… Meh. Needs practice.

[Lisa Wilbourn desire to see Taylor Hebert repeatedly expressing—]

Obviously. That's what 'practice' means.

With a soft click, the tab slides down a single tooth on the zipper that runs all the way down my torso.

"So… You were saying you wouldn't always let me do as I please?" Taylor's voice is a parody of concern.

"Well, you know, 'always' is such an absolute term…"

Another click, another tooth, and her nail digs the barest amount on my throat.

"And how did you plan on… asserting control?" she says, barely holding back a smile.

I pull on her hair, her back arching further, her breasts straining the fabric of her shirt.

She half moans, half gasps, her eyes turned to the frankly uninteresting ceiling.

"I'm sure I could think up [something]," I answer, my tone trying not to be as sultry as I'm feeling, keeping the façade of banter going.

"You think too much." The tab slides all the way to my collarbone, the black leather with purple stripes parting with the released pressure.

I twirl my right hand, twisting her hair around it in an improvised leash, and let my other hand drift down to squeeze her always delectable behind.

"One of my most endearing traits."

"I wouldn't say that—" she starts to quip. And cuts herself off when she drags the zipper low enough to finally realize what I'd been waiting for her to see for quite a while.

Namely: I'm not wearing a top.

Nor a bra.

Taylor's eyes get stuck on the deep valley of flesh the partially undone zipper has revealed to her. Then I pull on her hair in one direction, push on her ass from another…

And, with the groaning protest of far too old springs and the creaking of a decrepit wooden frame, I'm suddenly on top.

Taylor's eyes are wide, looking between my magnificently displayed breasts and my cocky smirk.

And I'm very glad I finally settled on wearing panties, because this would have been an awful mess to clean out of leather.

"You…" she starts. And I interrupt by dragging the zip down to my navel.

"Surprise," I whisper.

Her hands shoot to my waist, her fingers circling me, grabbing me, resting atop my hips, and I bite back a gasp that I really, [really] can't afford.

"Weren't you… cold?" she asks.

"Not when I thought about you," I answer.

And I only realize how sappy that sounds when we both burst out laughing.

"All right, all right, it was a bit nippy—[heh]—on the way here, but… I just couldn't get the thought of the way you would look at me, the way you [just looked at me,] out of my head. Totally worth it."

"I'm not arguing…"

"Which is kind of a miracle, you know?"

"Liz, are you sure that's how you want to play this—"

And I kiss her.

I'm not as frantic as she was, but no less thorough. I enjoy her lips, her cute moans, her little bursts of exhalation tickling me, her tongue coming out to meet mine. I enjoy her fingers tightening around me, her body raising up to press against me, the aborted movement of her head whenever I pull just a bit tighter than she expected… I enjoy everything that is kissing Taylor Hebert.

Then I take one of her hands and slide it between leather and skin.

It's a tight fit, and she doesn't glide over me with her usual, deliberate assurance. She has to force it, to stop at points, her movement jerky and stuttering. Unpredictable.

I can feel the goosebumps raising all over my arms.

And then she arrives at my breast, already constrained beneath tight leather. And she grasps.

I moan into her mouth, and she increases the pressure, her hold on me inescapable in more than one sense. I shift and slide one of my legs between hers, and she closes them around it, keeping me in place just as she manages to maneuver and pinch my nipple, my whole body jerking at her touch.

I release her lips and kiss up her neck till I reach her ear.

"It seems you have me at a disadvantage," I whisper, and I can see the small hairs on her neck rising at a tone that is far from admitting defeat.

"So I guess this is when you reveal I have been dancing to the tune of your plan all along?" she asks, her voice hinting at a suddenly dry mouth.

"You know me so well, love…" I drawl before licking around the edge of her ear and sliding the tip of my tongue up her ear canal.

Which is a magnificent lead-up to my dramatical reveal.

Power, what the fuck do I do?!

[Taylor Hebert predisposed to play along with scenario—]

Ah, right. Fake it till you make it. Of course.

I take the remaining hand Taylor has grabbing my waist and, with great remorse, pull it over her head.

Then I twist her hair around her wrist.

"Wha—" I cut her off with a kiss.

And grab her other hand.

Then I pull it up to her other hand.

I'm pushing her joined wrists down on her white pillow, her splayed hair gathered in strands that I twirl around her arms, the gleaming lines making even the drab grey look entrancing.

"I… I can just get out of this without any problem, you know?" she half affirms.

I twirl a different strand of hair around each of her fingers, humming all the while, my hips swaying and rubbing over hers with every turn.

"Will you?" I finally ask as I make her clasp her own hands, her fingers intertwined.

Taylor looks up at me, slightly panicked, but I hope it's just the right amount and the right kind of panic—

"No," she says, and I flush in more than pleasure and excitement, though there's quite a bit of [that].

"Good girl," I whisper. And that may be pushing it, but after all the times she's played my body like a fiddle, making me writhe in pleasure, tension, and release… Well, this has been [long] overdue.

[Lisa Wilbourn compensating for—]

Maybe. But I think we both are going to enjoy this thoroughly.

I lift my hips just a bit and pull Taylor's shirt up. Slowly, deliberately, almost rolling the fabric, revealing inch after inch of pale skin. I stop just when it reaches her sternum, and the whole of her taut stomach is revealed to me.

Maybe too taut.

"Don't let go," I whisper to her, looking at eyes that show, for once, a hint of doubt.

Then I drag the back of my still gloved finger up the side of her abdomen before I decide this just won't do.

I smile at her and pull off my gloves with my best Gilda impression. That would be far better if these were long gloves, but even I can't plan for everything.

At least I dramatically toss them to the far corner of the room.

And… Well, as long as I'm doing this…

I raise my hips once again, swaying over her to the rhythm of my humming (Put the Blame on Mame, what else?), and I drag the zipper all the way down.

And I wish there was a coy way to do this, but I'm not getting up, and the leather is too tight to play at letting it fall while I cover my breasts, so I instead have to go with 'aggressively sexual woman uncovering herself.'

Taylor doesn't complain. And she's still pulling her own hair every time I make her twitch.

I smile at her, a mixture of cocky and reassuring, my suit peeled off down to my waist, my breasts catching her attention more often than not. Then I lean down over her, my hands at each side of her head, and I playfully shake said breasts over her face, just beyond her reach.

She manages to pull her own hair after I go low enough she thinks she has a shot.

"Ready to try something new?" I ask.

She looks up at me incredulously.

"And this is what? Our usual routine?"

"Only if you want to," I singsong at her.

Then I crawl down her body.

I kiss her solar plexus, right below where her shirt is still covering her breastbone, and then keep going down, laying kisses along her midline, her muscles trembling with every bit of teasing suction, and I only stop when I reach her navel and look up to meet her almost bewildered eyes.

"What are you—"

"You're too tense."

Then I ghost the back of my fingers up the sides of her belly once again, but this time they are uncovered, and I can feel the proper distance to do nothing more than disturb her small hairs with my passage.

I lean my left hand on the faded blue bedcovers, the thick fabric twisting with my weight, and I fake an idle, almost careless continuation of my previous movement with the right hand, turning the upward motion into a gentle circle that brushes right above her pelvis on the downward stroke.

Then the circle turns into an inward spiral, and the feather-soft touches add a tad more pressure.

Taylor gasps, and she doesn't know why.

But I do.

It's a massage technique. The belly is a very sensitive, vulnerable zone. No animal will ever expose it without it being a show of absolute trust.

It's also where a great deal of stress is accumulated, and…

Soft touches that are still firm, dragging her skin just the right amount, warming her with my own heat…

Her breathing stuttering, always telling me if I'm about to cross a line, to press too much…

Her eyes on mine, wondering, asking, yet… Trusting. Not demanding answers, just feeling what I do to her.

I love her so damn much it takes my breath away.

But I don't let that stop my hand in its spiral that never touches her navel, turning its off-center position into the axis around which everything revolves.

I'm using my index and middle finger, and her muscles are now soft enough that I can dig a bit deeper, dragging around her sense of tension, her blocked [everything].

Her breath catches, and I lean down to kiss her right above her navel as the spiral completes.

Then, dragging my breasts over her skin, I climb up her body until I'm right in front of wet eyes.

"How… How do you…"

"I love you. And today's about taking care of you."

I get off the bed and stand up, and this time my leathers cooperate enough that they slide down my legs in an almost smooth way. Taking off my short boots isn't the most erotic spectacle in the world, but I think I manage not to break the mood.

… I [hope] so.

[Taylor Hebert's focus on Lisa Wilbourn's movements indicates—]

Ah. Thank you, Power. Stage fright.

Once I'm almost fully nude, only green lace panties remaining, I slowly turn around, showing my body off to her. But I don't grin. Not this time.

My smile is far subtler, more promise than assurance.

I lean over her, over the left side of the bed, and drag her pants down before I do away with her panties—which may reaffirm my intention of buying her lingerie for the next five Christmas.

[Seriously]. I'm almost offended.

But that's no reason to stop.

I caress the inside of her ankles, playing with the sensitive spot between the bone and the Achilles heel with a circular motion of my fingers before I trace her calves up to her knee, where I make a slight detour to tease her behind the articulation till her leg twitches.

I smile at her, soft, reassuring, then I raise both my hands till they are massaging the spot right in the middle of her thighs.

Taylor bites her lip and moans, and her arms shake with the strain of keeping herself captive of her own hair.

… And I'm so, [so] tempted to do away with this whole thing and just sit on her face so she can drive me completely out of my mind as she—

Bad thoughts. [Bad.]

I leave my left hand on her thigh and lean down till I can whisper right beside her.

"Do you know what comes next?"

She turns her head, her eyes wide and nailed to mine for a moment too long.

"You being insufferably smug?" she finally says.

And this time, I [do] smirk.

"No. No, that comes after." I drag my left hand up until it's resting right beside her sex, her heat radiating over the back, my palm over a taut tendon that shifts with every burst of stimulation. "Now? You ask. Nicely."

"Ask for what?" she says, and there's that glint, that edge of Taylor just not wanting to be seen as someone that can be pushed around. But… There's also that something else, that something I want to take care of, to nurture.

The vulnerability. The need to have someone she can trust at her weakest.

So I twist my hand, and now my palm is cupping her sex, her wet heat trapped between us. She bites her lip in a silent moan, and I wait until she opens her eyes once again to answer her question.

"To ask your fiancée to take care of you."

And I don't look at her with defiance nor with smug triumph. No, this isn't about that. This isn't about me lording something over her that she will then resent me for.

This… This isn't about taking turns.

This is about… About her letting down that wall. Brick by brick if need be.

And I think I communicate it, because her eyes, after having been widened, soften once more, and there's that hint of wetness that I managed to massage out of her belly.

She nods.

I smile, not quite in triumph, and lean down to whisper in her ear, my cupped palm slightly pressing down on her sex with the movement.

"Say it. Tell me," I ask her. And I'm asking, not ordering.

Taylor swallows, and I can see the bobbing of her throat when she does.

"Lisa… Liz. Please… take care of me."

Her smile is hesitant, shy.

Mine is almost painful.

"Always. Always, Tay. My love."

I grasp her hands with my free one, a gentle hold, enveloping them, the strands of her hair silk beneath my touch.

And I kiss her.

Our tongues meet again, and none is demanding of the other, just accepting, dancing partners.

Then I slide my fingers along her wet slit, each movement back and forth coinciding with a twirl of our dance, and Taylor arches her back, her breasts straining the tightened grey fabric that I'm suddenly not that concerned with.

I circle her clitoris, alternating pressure and release along the circumference, and her hips sway beneath my touch.

I lean back, her lips seeking mine for a moment before our eyes meet and she becomes paralyzed.

Then I enter her.

There are women for whom penetration doesn't do much. Many can't orgasm without direct clitoral stimulation, and… Well, let's just say that, going by the way Taylor bites her lip until she almost draws blood and the keening noise that will make all the dogs in the neighborhood hate her guts, she's not one of those girls.

And, as the saying goes, this is just the tip.

I twist my fingers around, the middle and ring ones alternating between them which one goes deeper inside Taylor as she keeps shaking her head from side to side, each movement making her pull her own hair beneath my grasp and only exacerbating the deluge of sensation I know she's feeling.

She's wet and warm. Soft. Accepting.

So I push a bit further in, spreading her.

And her moan makes me shiver.

I rub my thighs together, aching for her attention, her touch, her tongue or whatever she would deign give me as I moaned needily, but I hold back and focus on her, on the girl vulnerable and open beneath me.

She needs this more than I do.

I think. I may not be an unbiased observer at this very moment.

[Taylor Hebert's emotional vulnerability exacerbated by isolation from—]

Right. Right. Focus, Lisa.

My fingers are now smoothly sliding in and out of her. She's still tight around them, but not to the point it takes effort to push further in, and my wrist is making undulating motions that always culminate with the heel of my hand pressing down right on Taylor's clit. Her eyes are closed, and she's so beautiful, consumed in these sensations I'm providing her, twisting beneath me, at my touch, at the emotions I convey through it…

I've far too often imagined her in stiletto heels and a leather corset, but… This isn't bad. Not bad at all.

Except for the burning [need] between my legs that all but demands I attend to it, I mean. That part may be a bit bad.

"Tell me how it feels, Tay," I ask her.

Her eyes open with visible effort, looking at me with an expression that, in any other context, would look like suffering.

"Good…"

I hold back a chuckle, because me laughing at her is the last thing she needs right now.

Even if she's so cute it's hilarious.

"How can I make it better?" I ask her instead.

She gasps, because I made the question coincide with me pressing down on her little nub and having my wrist twist back and forth over it.

"My… My breasts. It's like I need you to play with them." And her flush may have something of shame, because that whole body image thing is still a work in progress, but it sure has plenty of other, more pleasant, components.

But my left hand is plenty occupied, and I just don't want to let go of her hands with my right one, so…

I lean down over her, and I take the edge of her shirt between my teeth before awkwardly pulling it up, my touch down below momentarily reduced to a constant, pulsing pressure until I manage to free Taylor's breasts.

I kiss her between them, marveling once again at how soft and smooth the skin is right there, at how her slight breasts tremble at her shuddering exhalation.

Then I look up and see her looking down at me, a note of pleading on her face that I've never seen before, not on Taylor, not the always composed girl.

Not on the one who has held me time and again as I've come undone between her arms.

And I know some would be disappointed, maybe realizing for the first time their idol has feet of clay, but I…

I'm seeing her open to me. Vulnerable. Weak.

Human.

Real.

And I could withstand this burning agony below my navel for years on end if it meant she could allow herself that with me.

So I take her nipple between my lips, alternating tender licks with suction as I resume my assault on her sex, as I feel her thighs getting drenched with every movement.

She bends her legs and pushes her hips off the mattress, making it easier for me to access her, easing the tension of keeping my arms stretched so fully and for so long.

Then I feel her fingers let go of each other only to grasp mine.

"Liz… Liz… Please… [Faster."]

Her voice is breathy, almost raspy, and I turn to see her eyes unfocused, her lips parted.

It…

You owe me a big one after this, Tay.

[Reciprocity often considered vital for healthy relationships—]

Right. Precisely. This is about healthy relationship dynamics, not about the burning, all-consuming, far too distracting [thing—]

I mean, she said to go faster, didn't she?

So I do that.

I don't move my fingers in languid motions born out of my wrist: I plunge them with my arm.

And she moans. Quite audibly.

So, remembering this isn't a hotel and that I don't know how thin the walls are, I let go of the elastic nipple between my lips (and try not to get distracted by the way her flattened breast almost ripples when I do) and cover Taylor's mouth with my own.

Her kiss is uncoordinated, far from her best efforts.

It's still hungry, devoted, and I have a hard time keeping my left hand to task while her tongue assaults mine.

So I try to regain lost ground and accelerate, and—

Her breathing quickens—

Her right hand lets go of ours—

She grabs the back of my head, dragging me down against her mouth with even more strength—

Her thighs clench around my wrist—

And she screams.

I can feel it, her, reverberating around and through me, even if the sound never escapes our sealed mouths. I can feel her whole body going taut, as tense as she ever is and a bit more, and remain like this for long seconds.

And then she slumps.

She's below me, her limbs sprawled, her hand trailing blonde tresses from my head to where it's fallen right beside her slack face.

She's staring up at nothing, and I'm…

I'm eager. Frustrated. Needy.

And fulfilled in a way I didn't think I could be.

Gently, carefully, I let go of her and take my fingers out of her now even slicker folds. Then I shift her around so I can pull out the blankets from beneath her and roll her inside the bed.

I look at her, and the temptation to kiss her forehead good night is far too great to resist. Except…

There are other temptations.

Such as wiping my hand on a discarded shirt lying on the floor, turning off the light, and getting in bed with my girlfriend.

I hug her side, half my body lying on top of her, and it's only after a moment that she gathers enough of her wits to return the hug.

She should ask me if I'm staying the night. Talk about what her father may say come the morning. Tell me how bad of an idea this is. Maybe fret about not having returned the favor.

She kisses the top of my head.

"Love you, Liz," she murmurs.

And falls asleep.

And it's perfect.

==================

This work is a repost of my most popular fic on QQ (https://forum.questionablequesting.com/threads/wake-up-call-worm.15638/), where it can be found up to date except for the latest two chapters that are currently only available on Patreon (https://www.patreon.com/Agrippa?fan_landing=true)—as an added perk, both those sites have italicized and bolded text. I'll be posting the chapters here twice weekly, on Wednesday and Friday, until we're caught up. Unless something drastic happens, it will be updated at a daily rate until it catches up to the currently written 85 chapters (or my brain is consumed by the overwhelming amounts of snark, whichever happens first).

Speaking of Italics, this story's original format relied on conveying Power's intrusions into Lisa's inner monologue through the use of italics. I'm using square brackets ([]) to portray that same effect, but the work is more than 300k words at the moment, so I have to resort to the use of macros to make that light edit and the process may not be perfect. My apologies in advance

Also, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patreon: Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, Xalgeon, and aj0413. If you feel like maybe giving me a hand and helping me keep writing snarky, useless lesbians, consider joining them or buying one of my books on https://www.amazon.com/stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S. Thank you for reading!