Lesbian PsychoTherapists #01

Being gay always came with its own weight, the late-night talks, the questions that left her turning the same thoughts over in bed. Then she met someone who could match that weight with touch. Their hands met under soft light, a simple contact that turned into fingers sliding beneath clothing, breath catching, mouths open against necks. She felt the quick tremor run through her when she was pressed back, thighs parting, the first slow lick sending heat straight through her belly. They moved between mouths and fingers, between slow circles and sudden pushes, between moments that stretched and snapped. When one broke first, gasping into the sheets, the other kept going until she joined, until both lay spent, skin sticking where sweat had dried, hands still loosely joined. That was how they talked things out. That was what being a lesbian meant here.