A
t times, Carla thought it was the mind-blowing symmetry that made her crave Susan's body night after night, fifteen years into their partnership.
It was love that accounted for the fact that they were spending a lifetime together. Carla knew this. But when the atmosphere in their bedroom shifted from overhead fixture to little, pink bedside lamp, was it love, per se, that made her intent on getting her tongue inside Susan's mouth and her fingers inside Susan's pussy, before either of them considered sleep.
Or was it the never-ending attraction of fucking her mirror image?
Early on, when they used to hit the clubs together every weekend, people constantly mistook them for sisters. It was more than just their similar body types (boyish), hair color (natural blonde), and noses (button). It was the way each woman moved and gestured. It was the way they exchanged knowing looks and sympathetic smiles, and jokes that others found to be impenetrable.
Perhaps there had also been an element of wishful thinking on the part of allthose club boys and girls who wanted to fuck the two women. Maybe they didn't want to see that those looks and smiles and jokes signified a connection even more intimate than the kind shared by siblings.
Hell,even their current landlady had asked if they were sisters, and that was within the past year. Over housewarming wine, Susan and Carla had privately speculated about whether, and in precisely what manner, the handsome homeowner had hoped to do her new tenants.
Susan and Carla had matured in step with each other, not only emotionally, but also physically. They had the same, still-nearly-invisible gray hairs, appearing unannounced; the same subtle thickening of the body,from "slight" to "svelte"; and the same little lines around each woman's mouth, which identified the wearer as someone who laughed long,hard, and often.
Carla would never forget the first time Susan stripped for her, poised daintily in her bedroom with a smile that said, "I'm shy," but with a glimmer and resolve in her eye that said, "I'm going to eat and drink you up, honey, then eat and drink you up again for dessert." That look had made Carla so wet, and she had stood there for a sacred moment, her pulse frozen and her panties clinging. In that moment, she had found that one thought in particular stood out from all of the giddiness,marvel, and lust:
She looks like me.
Before, this had been something she took for granted. But here, it emerged as the most arousing revelation she'd ever had.
Is that what my pussy looks like when it's wet?
Carla would often think as she held Susan's tender lips apart before tasting her. After fifteen years, the thought still did it for her. Sometimes she would stop her oral ministrations to rub Susan's blonde bush, then her own blonde bush, alternating the soft strokes with perfect equity.One for me . . . one for you . . . until Susan,gliding on giggles, would clutch gently at Carla's furry mound and elicit a parallel river of laughter. Carla would sneak a look at the mirror on the wall and see two 41-year-old beauties with their hands between each others' legs. She would observe Susan's bottom, wiggling with titillated abandon, and her own face flushing with pleasure.Sometimes, when they were sufficiently entangled, she couldn't tell whose legs were whose. At those moments, they had a collective resemblance to some poly-limbed goddess, transported by secret joy
Susan worked in an office, and Carla worked at home. Every evening, Susan would arrive, give her lover a quick kiss and a lingering ass-squeeze,and head down the hall to change. Susan always began to shed her jeans or skirt before reaching the bedroom. Sometimes, if the day was humid,the panties would also begin a downward journey before she veered out of sight.
Is that what my pretty ass looks like when I'm striding down the hall?
Carla would wonder. She would touch herself while waiting for Susan to return.
And yet, the symmetry was in many ways illusory. Fifteen years in, Carla knew that she and Susan did not make decisions the same way, experience emotions the same way, or process information the same way. And though their tone and timbre of voice showed a sisterly affinity, they rarely expressed themselves in the same words.
Oh,they were compatible all right—securely and deliciously so. But large chunks of the compatibility grew out of their differences rather than their similarities. Strong suits to vulnerabilities, expertise here to ingenuousness there... how well they complemented each other.
How well, indeed. In the bedroom, Carla, who couldn't care less about having her nipples licked, could make Susan come by licking hers. The alien nature of Susan's pleasure, in Carla's eyes, made it especially exciting to deliver, even to anticipate.
I am in love with a woman who is creaming to have her nipples licked tonight.
In the very midst of gratifying that desire, Carla would reflect on it,and she would feel her arousal grow with the tangible awareness of Susan's distinctness from her. Bringing Susan to ecstasy was, in and of itself, sometimes more pleasure than Carla knew what to do with, and she would simply come in her panties, slickly and helplessly, before Susan could even touch her.
But Susan would touch her, and Carla had taught her where to do so. The place was just barely south of her clit—not part of the clit, but an infinitesimal distance away—a signature locus along her inner lips, a unique receptor for an impossibly cozy type of bliss, like mulled wine and warm bathwater and slow-motion orgasms, that was not quite comparable to any of the rich sensations that emanated from her tingling bud or her pulsing cunt walls. Carla may have been the only woman in the world with a special nerve ending exactly there; she cherished it, and Susan could sensually pamper her merely by breathing on it awhile. In fact, she was expected to, night after night.
Vive la différence!
Carla liked to say, with a passionate irony, to her same-sex near-twin, when Susan put her over the edge. The French words came out in a guttural slur as Carla's cunt trembled around fingers that looked very much like her own, but moved so differently.
On the night of their 17
th
anniversary, their landlady invited them to dinner, which they, of course, declined. That morning, Susan had dressed both for the office and for home—the skirt suit was one of her most elegant workday outfits, but Susan also understood that when her jacket and skirt came off, being clothed in the ruffled blouse and burgundy pantyhose would especially please Carla. Carla was the type to buy a present; Susan was the type to dress up.
Carla watched Susan walk down the hallway after she came home from work, and noticed that her lover sauntered more slowly than usual. Susan was intentionally taking her time as she slithered out of her skirt. Carla grabbed the gift from the coffee table and ran down the hall after Susan, catching her with a waist-gripping gesture of possession,accompanied by the pressure of her mound against Susan's pantyhose-perfect ass. She knew that Susan, who was always very deliberate, was turned on by her impulsiveness.
Susan spun around, kicked her skirt out of the way, and smiled at Carla. Then she accepted the small, rectangular package that her woman was extending to her.
"You know," she said, "there's a part of me that never wants to open presents. Until it's unwrapped, a present represents perfect fulfillment of every wish, doesn't it?"
Carla's eyes roamed over Susan, relishing the seductive effect of the translucent tights, through which the outrageous understatement of a silken, minimalist thong was revealed. She glanced at the skirt that relaxed, two feet away, on the floor. "My present's already unwrapped,"she said. "
And
it represents perfect fulfillment of every wish."
Susan found Carla's mouth with her own—they fit each other precisely, a matched set—and they shared their breath for a minute.
Then Carla gently took the unopened present out of Susan's hand. "This isn't perishable," she explained. "It's not fragile, either." And she tossed it onto the floor, letting Susan's skirt cushion the impact.
Tonight, they did it right in the hallway.
Having relieved Susan of the package, Carla pulled her to the floor. She was torn between the almost-fetishistic appeal of caressing, wrestling,even humping Susan in her burgundy pantyhose . . . and the overwhelming desire to crinkle those pantyhose down her legs, pull aside the thong, and get her face in touch with the fragrant, liquid core of Susan's womanhood.
Reason told her to enjoy Susan in the hose while she could—because, once peeled down, they would certainly not be going back on. Not tonight.
The thrill of petting Susan into a state of hyper-arousal while she was still contained within the burgundy shell rewarded Carla's nod to reason. Her lover's legs, which she knew like her own, seemed to churn and ripple beneath her touch. And when she stroked across the crotch of the pantyhose, she felt fire
Carla knew how it felt to go moist in a tiny thong—that precious feeling of one's sexuality overwhelming one's apparel—and as she inched the pantyhose down to reveal Susan's squirming, tender flesh, the sight connected like a doorbell to her own thong. Once again, Carla indulged the convenient sensory luxury of loving a partner who was her physical double.
Just as she'd imagined doing, she pulled the thong aside, rather than remove it. She held Susan within the silk frame like a flower in a hatband,licking and stroking the open petals, which displayed themselves for her as if some gifted milliner had arranged everything to perfection.
Susan's ecstasy made a sticky mess on Carla's face, like a fruit cocktail consumed in haste. As Carla lapped up every nurturing drop, Susan cried, softly and joyously. Carla, who often laughed when she came,felt her heart throbbing for this girl who cried when she came.
Susan always drifted off before Carla. Tonight, as every night, Carla held her lover tightly, her arms surrounding Susan's bottom. She framed the placid globes, presenting them to herself to love with a hundred soft kisses. She gradually lulled herself by grazing on the fleshy, passive cheerfulness of the beloved ass.
Your ass in my arms, your cheeks in my face.
The thought, and the reality, guaranteed sweet dreams.
Yes, tonight had been an anniversary, a special night, a night for politely declining a landlady's invitation. But the landlady might have been surprised to know just how regularly these two women, long in love,sharing the same years, the same looks, and the same lifetime, were fucking each others' matching behinds off through layers of symmetry and deeper layers of individuality . . . stripping away at their sameness and uncovering the raw elements of erotic essence.
The landlady might have been surprised.
Originally Published March 2008