The Writer

Nesty sits at her desk past midnight, blue eyes fixed on the page. Her blonde hair is pinned up, a few strands falling loose across her collarbone. She’s written plenty about romance, but never about sex this raw, this explicit. The idea of a mysterious woman with a secret life both excites and unsettles her. She types until the lamp flickers and a chill runs over her skin. A sound—soft, rhythmic—comes from the hallway. Nesty switches on the light. Zazie stands there, barefoot, wearing nothing but an open robe that slips off one shoulder. She’s the woman Nesty invented, yet she’s solid, real, breathing. Her natural breasts rise with each slow step forward. Nesty’s mouth opens but no words come. Zazie reaches her first, fingers sliding under the hem of Nesty’s nightshirt, parting her thighs with calm authority. She presses two fingers against Nesty’s slick heat, stroking in tight circles until Nesty’s hips lift off the chair. Zazie pulls Nesty to the floor. They turn together, bodies aligning without thought—Nesty’s tongue finds Zazie’s clit just as Zazie’s mouth covers hers. The 69 is seamless, hungry, every lick answered by another. Zazie’s fingertip circles Nesty’s ass, then presses inside, knuckle-deep, matching the steady rhythm of her tongue. Sweat glistens on Nesty’s skin. Each thrust of Zazie’s finger sends sparks up her spine, and every moan she lets out vibrates against Zazie’s cunt. The room is quiet except for the wet sounds of mouths and the low, urgent breathing of two women lost in each other. Nesty comes first, thighs shaking around Zazie’s head. Zazie follows seconds later, grinding down, coating Nesty’s lips. When it’s over they stay tangled, Zazie’s finger still gently moving inside her creator, neither of them willing to break the connection.