Lesbian Meditation

It’s messy. And oddly elegant. The kind of tension you can taste across the room—Kenzie perched on the edge of that wide studio couch, legs tucked under her, blonde hair brushing her collarbone like it has somewhere better to be. Vera’s legs are already spread. Not wide enough. Not yet. She keeps her knees pinned like she’s ashamed of what lives between them, but the wetness says otherwise. They aren’t talking therapy anymore. Kenzie’s fingers draw slow circles just above Vera’s hipbone, then press down until her stomach trembles. The mature woman exhales—half moan, half curse—as she unfolds. Hips tilted, spine arched, her body pulled into some twisted, ballet-like knot that’s all open thighs and captive wrists. Flesh against flesh, Vera folded beneath a girl half her size, half her age, and twice as certain what she wants. When Kenzie dips in again, she sucks until her cheeks hollow. Vera bucks. Something gives—slow at first, then a clear, sudden rush, and Kenzie takes every hot mouthful with a satisfied hum. It runs down her chin, drips onto the couch. Vera’s thighs shake. She gasps the word “fuck,” sounding grateful and gutted at once. Twice more the slick shock of orgasm overtakes her, each one tearing a raw, honest sound from her throat. No more pretenses. The older woman watches Kenzie lap at the aftermath, slick strands clinging to that pert little mouth, and realizes her body was never broken. Just waiting for the right, younger hands to remind it how to come undone.