Old Friends, Filthy habits
Four years of mud and blood behind the front lines of France, stitching up shattered men and holding hands while the light left their eyes, and I come back to England to find I still cannot vote. Women over thirty only.
It's a sick joke, a limp-wristed concession from men who still think we belong in the parlour, not the polling station. No wonder poor Fanny tried to change those damnable Lords' minds. But a silly girl, selecting the start of duck season to protest? She flapped in the reeds, waving her banner while the guns went off, and well, the rest is an open-coffin wake—thoroughly boring and entirely avoidable.
The air inside the manor is thick with stale cigar smoke and the cloying perfume of debutantes pretending they don't know what a cock is for. I can't breathe in it. My corset feels like a straitjacket, and the hired band is sawing away at a dirge that grates against my nerves.
I need gin and a cigarette. I need something sharp and burning to cut through the grey fog of this polite society.
I push through the French doors, stepping out onto the stone terrace. The night air hits my skin, cool and blessedly free of the smell of desperation. I light a cigarette, the spurt of the match briefly startling me, reminding me of trench flares; and I take a deep drag, letting the smoke curl around my painted red lips. I follow the path of crushed white gravel, the heels of my shoes clicking rhythmically, until I see it ahead—the gazebo.
It's a riot of overgrowth, thick vines choking the white wood, roses blooming with a heavy, intoxicating scent that reminds me of funeral parlours and expensive brothels. I climb the steps, the wood groaning under my weight, and lean against the railing. It's secluded here, shadowed from the house, a private stage hidden in plain sight.
"You're hiding too, then?"
The voice is low, smoky, and drags a memory from the depths of my brain that makes my knees weak. I turn, cigarette halfway to my mouth, and see her leaning against a vine-choked pillar. Gertrude. The sight of her hits me like a tongue lapping pussy. She's wearing a dark green dress that clings to her curves, her hair bobbed short and sharp, just like mine.
"Gertrude," I breathe, the smoke escaping my lungs in a rush.
"God, Le Tréport!"
"Top night," she says, pushing off the pillar and walking toward me.
Her eyes rake over my body, undressing me with a gaze that feels hotter than the French sun.
"Vivian, Vivian. The bandage storage room. Those mussed sheets as we dived into each other's private trench."
The memory floods back—the smell of antiseptic mixed with our sweat, the rough texture of the linen shelves against my back, the way her fingers felt inside me while the artillery boomed in the distance.
It was steamy, frantic, decadent. Girly slick coating each other's fingers. Sticky gummy gloss dripping from digits, shared in one another's mouth. Musk wafting up between our thighs.
Tonight, she stops in front of me, close enough that I can smell the gin on her breath and the floral scent of her soap. She takes a drag from her own cigarette, her eyes locked on mine, and then lets it fall. The cherry hits the wooden floorboards, sizzling for a moment before dying.
"Screw the war, didn't get us the vote," Gertrude murmurs.
She reaches out, her hand cool against my flushed cheek, and pulls me close. "I want to taste you."
She scoops my mouth up in a kiss that is anything but polite. It's hungry, demanding, insistent as a suffragette banner, her tongue thrusting past my lips to claim the taste of tobacco and desperation.
I moan into her mouth, my hands tangling in her short hair, pulling her harder against me. The tension that has been coiling in my gut from the damnable wake, is released, a flood of heat now pools between my thighs.
Her hands move to the straps of my dress, sliding them down my shoulders. The silk top of my flapper dress pools at my waist, exposing my breasts to the cool night air.
My nipples pebble instantly, tightening into hard nubs that ache for attention. Gertrude doesn't make me wait. Same speed as Le Tréport.
She breaks the kiss only to duck her head, her hot breath ghosting over my skin before she takes one nipple into her mouth.
"God, yes," I gasp, my head falling back against the pillar.
"Mmm, mmm, mmm!"
She sucks hard, her tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, grazing it with her teeth. She drags my nipple upward in a sucking, vacuuming motion. Her other hand, spit soaked, circles my other teat.
The sensation shoots straight to my clit, making my pussy throb with a wet, needy pulse. Her hands kneading my flesh like she owns it.
"I need your kitten," she purrs against my skin, the word, filthy and perfect.
She pushes me back onto the bench in the centre of the gazebo. I sprawl back, lifting my hips as she hikes up my skirt, ripping the delicate silk of shift, to get to me. I'm not wearing underwear—a flapper's prerogative—and the air hits my wet, exposed flesh.
"Look at you," she whispers, dropping to her knees on the wooden floor.
"Soaked and ready. If not me, some damn lucky valet or chauffer."
She spreads my thighs wide, her grip firm and possessive.
Then, she leans in and drags her flat tongue through my slit, from my hole to my clit. Her tongue tip twirls around my hood. Then presses under the cowl, flicking my bud, flicking my nub into absolute feral bliss.
"Oohh! Yes! Oohh! My! Oohh!"
I cry out, my hips bucking off the bench.
She eats me with the same urgency we had in that storage room, lapping at my juices, sucking my clit into her mouth and grazing it relentlessly.
"Fuck, Gertrude, your mouth feels so good," I pant, looking down at the bob of her dark head between my legs.
"Eat that pussy. Oohh! Make me cum. Oohh!"
She moans into my flesh, the vibration sending shockwaves through me.
She slides two fingers into my tight hole, curling them upward to find that spongy spot inside that joins me to the night stars. She pumps them in and out, fucking me with a hard, fast rhythm while her tongue works my clit. Ceaseless devotion to my nub.
Trills, thrills, tickles of delight, coursing through my bud, spreading to my thighs, pushing through my belly and wholly occupying my mind.
I reach down, grabbing her hair to hold her in place, grinding my love nest against her face. I can hear the wet sounds of her fingers plunging into me, the slurping of her tongue, and it's the dirtiest, most beautiful thing I've ever heard.
A pucky, pucky noise as a slurpy gurgle of spit bubbles in my pussy, mixed with the air trapped around her slapping, cuffing tongue.
"I'm close," I warn her, my voice ragged. "Don't you dare stop."
She doubles her efforts, sucking my clit hard and thrusting her fingers deep. The orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, ripping a scream from my throat.
"Orrghh!"
My pussy clenches around her fingers, gushing cum as my body trembles and shakes.
Gertrude rides me through it, lapping up every drop of my release until I'm a boneless, panting wreck.
But she's not done. Before I can catch my breath, she stands up and shimmies out of her green dress, kicking it away.
She's naked underneath, pale skin glowing in the moonlight. She straddles my lap on the bench, her wet slit sliding against my still-sensitive thigh. God, I love her pink flaps peering through her dark bush.
"My turn," she demands, capturing my lips again. I can taste myself on her tongue, musky and sweet.
I slide my hand between our bodies, finding her dripping wet slit. She's swollen and hot, her clit hard as a pearl. I slip two fingers inside her, marvelling at the tight, wet heat of her.
She gasps, throwing her head back, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"Yes, Vivian, finger me," she groans. "Just like that."
I three digit fuck her, with deep, hard strokes, my thumb circling her clit. She rocks her hips, riding my hand, her breasts bouncing in my face.
I lean forward, taking a nipple in my mouth and biting down gently. She cries out, her inner walls fluttering around my fingers.
"Make me cum all over your hand," she begs, her voice breathless and high, "I want to cum with you. Mmm! Aahh!"
We are a tangle of limbs, two desperate women finding solace in each other's bodies. Pussy rubbing pussy. The mutual intense grind. The bonding of pubes, mons pubis and crinkly glossed, pinkish flaps. A bumping, slamming, repeated strike of softness on softness, wetness on wetness, want on want.
The gazebo spins around us. The scent of roses and sex is overwhelming. I look into her eyes, dark and dilated with lust, and feel the second orgasm rising.
"Now," I gasp. "Cum for me, Gertrude. Oohh! Aahh!"
She shudders, a long, low moan tearing from her throat as she cums.
"Aagghh!"
I release my liquid jet in tandem with her gooey slick gel.
We cling to each other, shaking and moaning, our mutual orgasms ripping through us like Big Bertha had targeted us both.
We collapse against each other on the bench, hearts hammering against our ribs.
The night is quiet again, save for our ragged breathing.
I reach for my discarded pack of cigarettes, shaking one out and lighting it for both of us. I take a drag and pass it to her.
"A way to pass the time, until we get the vote," I whisper, watching the smoke drift up into the vines.
"To the vote," she echoes, a lazy, satisfied smile curving her lips as she leans her head against my shoulder.
"But damn girl, don't make me wait another four years for a night like this."