Busted - Part 3

Lillian pressed back into the chair like it might swallow her. The printed pages felt thicker between her fingers than they should have, and every line sank straight through her. She had pulled the curtains halfway, letting just enough light land across her thighs and the half-read stack. Her nipples had already drawn tight beneath the silk blouse. Then came the knock. Five of them—laughing, breathless, clutching wine and little fold-out chairs—spilled into the yard next door. She watched them settle on the grass while the woman from the other house began to read. Low voice. Steady. Every word hit some hidden switch under Lillian’s skin. She heard the first sharp intake of breath from the garden, then the soft, wet sound of mouths meeting skin. The readers kept going. Someone moaned, then laughed at her own sound. Lillian’s free hand drifted between her legs, slipping under the hem of her skirt. The paper trembled. The voices outside rose and fell with every turn of phrase. Tongues slid lower, parting slick folds; someone’s hips lifted in answer. Finger and page, page and tongue, everything moved to the same slow rhythm until the verses dissolved into heat and quiet gasping.