By Fallen Kittie
Copyright ©2024
Kate can see all the way to the back of the club. She looks over the vast, vacant faces of the patrons: thirsty, hoary guys who shoot liquor and pool. Midwest Americana blares to compensate for the absence of conversation.
Rosa throbs along the pulsing bass, clad in only a mauve thong that exposes her ass. Crisp bank notes undo the skimpy undergarment. She swivels her lips when patrons approach the stage, mouths the lyrics, strums her sex until it’s lustrous.
Kate enjoys the show alone at the bar. Her eyes drink in the curves and motions that glisten while she sips at her cocktail.
Earlier, she approached Rosa backstage before her set, pen and notebook in hand. It felt almost crude to barter for her priceless insights.
But Rosa had a price.
Everyone did.
Rosa had terms so succinct that they sounded rehearsed. Never missed a beat as she launched into a story about doing angel dust at a casting call; how she barely ate because she was consumed by a desire to model, the lure of glamour and luxury. She held her head high like a queen whose majesty is an unequivocal strut. In high school, she seldom studied, but worked tirelessly to perfect every pose. Most people said she was shameless. Selfies deluged her profiles. She wasn’t vain, just intent to discover which angles flattered her most.
She wanted to be famous.
Infamous.
Know for memorable party favours.
Whoever obliged made her more shapely than sensuous. For hours, they would linger upon and within. One would grasp her breasts. Another was devoted to her neck. More would pluck at the petals of her sex to content themselves. The odd time, some would stray to circle the posterior orifice. All of them would coax their cocks against her cheeks. Just one lick would make them shiver. With her eyes closed, Rosa would imagine a photo shoot: flashing lights, personnel who fawned on set; countless hands, mouths, and tongues meant for her.
Only for her.
All eyes on me.
Until she caught the eye of a hidden camera.
In a way, Rosa got what fame she wanted.
Almost overnight, the video became the talk of the town. The men were peripheral despite their cursory composure.
All that mattered was Rosa.
Taut, swollen breasts that peaked towards whomever would draw them in.
Infernal intimates that engrossed whatever occupied them.
An earnest gag reflex.
Rosa had dreamt of the limelight, a life filled with adoration and riches, just like the celebrities whose sex led them to stardom. But unforgiving reality would subsume what she envisioned. She found herself exiled, cast as a pariah in a world that revelled in its own selective embrace of agents and Amazons.
Everything is beyond her grasp, so she now makes do with svelte cocks that quiver like her fingers.
Kate already knew.
Thanks to Rosa’s last agent.
They billed themselves as select, celebrated, superior. People called them tight knit. Everything unraveled out after Kate found one of Rosa’s old commercial spreads.
They confided to Kate weeks ago.
They showed her the sex tape.
Kate had to meet the libidinous outcast. The night pulse led her through smoky avenues that narrowed and wound like paths to a heart. It took a couple days, but Kate finally found her in front of this place. Rosa treated the parking lot as her runway, nearly tripping over her heels, to oblige patrons who decided against the red light district. Her voice was sensual, thick and throaty like honey. A man nodded her way. She had taken his hand in hers and drawn it to her lips.
Kate had stayed until Rosa returned. She wondered what Rosa thought as she approached. Had she known how Kate’s heart raced, how she poised her pens, how her eyes brimmed with an insatiable thirst for insight?
Rosa had been alight with curiosity. Eager to oblige, she didn’t hesitate to bare her soul if it meant getting noticed. Kate was a writer after all. She knew other writers.
Photographers.
Studios.
Agents.
Now, here they are.
Rosa smiles, but her eyes are glum. “When will this go live?”
“Maybe in a week,” Kate replies. “I’ll have to finish the draft and clean things up after it goes to my editor.”
“Don’t you need my photo? Will there be a shoot…?”
Kate shakes her head. “No, we’ll run just the story with illustrations. There’s an artist on-staff for features.”
“Oh.”
Kate leans into the silence that now sprawls between them. She empties what’s left of her soda, gathers her notes, then wads them into her purse.
“Would you like a private dance?”
Kate digs through her purse.
Rosa accepts a handful of crisp bills.
She leads Kate to a booth. The floors are blanketed by Persian tapestries. Flaxen lamps cast a lunar glow that drape a velvet loveseat.
Rosa knows her place. She takes hold of the private pole and resolves to trace a higher love. Her body assumes the role of a vessel whose haunting grace barely conceals the tormented sensuality within. She walks with a purposeful stride and fluid motion, intent to defy the banality that plays her down.
Kate clasps her hands in her lap and finds her fingers stray to the hem of her shirt. The collar feels like a noose.
“Why did you offer me a dance?”
Slowly, Rosa leans to Kate. Her hair spills down her shoulders in inky rivulets. She teases it along Kate’s jaw before she answers. “I guess I was being polite. I didn’t think you’d take me up on it.”
Kate purses her lips. “I didn’t either.”
Rosa brushes her breasts against Kate’s, sliding further. “I don’t care,” she admits. “I was just being polite again.”
Kate reaches to palm them. She cups the globes of warmth and thumbs the tawny peaks. They’re pointed.
Hard.
Easy.
Rosa smirks to discover likewise. Surely, she knows her own perusal strikes pangs within. It takes nothing for her to caress Kate, but she takes care to knoll the buxom flesh; to coax, roll the buds to her leisure. The areolae are markedly swollen, wider and puffier than hers.
Kate can see herself in Rosa. The barren expanse of her heart, strewn with fragments of shattered dreams and all else that cut to the meat of life’s cruelties, had always led Kate to wander. She yearns for a power that eludes her. She can never live in the moment. Echoes of past disappointments rang through her as grim prospects had drowned out the present. Wherever she goes, a regretful ache lingers. Once fresh and lively, she now finds herself weary and weathered. Life’s all about pulling your weight, but Kate carries the scars of fruitless searches, endless endeavours to find relief in the eyes or arms of others.
In many ways, Rosa had been no different. She just wanted to be wanted. Even Kate could see that in the coy, caustic gaze that defined the profile Rosa’s former agency decidedly cast out. For Kate, the sight of Rosa was a cruel, tender miracle.
As if the universe conspired to unite them.
Kate parts her lips. Rosa breathes against them. Hers muse as the space begins to close between them. Their mouths unfold within and upon one another like petals of a long awaited bloom.
Kisses prolong every caress.
The kiss of the mouths that drench as their epithets draw moisture.
“For you, do you want me to spread my legs?”
“I want to bend you over and eat you out from behind.”
The kiss of the breasts, rasping together in an uproar of peaks and undersides.
Twists.
Twitches.
The kiss of the figures—cheeks, hips, navels—that swivel over one another in precious friction and suspense.
Strokes.
Shakes.
Rosa is fluid between her legs. She climbs over Kate until either sex is respective at eye level. It moves as if by an unseen hiss, a singular hiss that devotes itself and distends all else for the core. She makes haste to lick Kate, savouring the wiry tresses of her intimates. Kate laves her in kind, lipping the sparsely haired albeit fleecy vulva that Rosa proffers. The woman squirm and suckle, content to part when their faces are glazed, which spurs them to fully undress until all they wear is an odorous musk.
Closing her eyes, Kate imagines herself in a tape of her own, subsumed by an orgy of Rosas; plying her with countless hands, mouths, tongues, as they purposed her for their release.
Which is all for the best.
Rosa mounts Kate. She takes hold.
The past becomes a mere whisper.
The future edges out of focus.
Rosa takes hold of all within reach. Tender, deliberate hands guide Kate to traverse a libidinous landscape. She teases her ass in tune with the songs that throb around them. Kate enjoys it, spreads in her eager grasp, then over the ridge of her nose as she fills her mouth. Rosa feels her sex grow wet after she slaps hers. She revels as Kate shakes. Each smack hastens the tremors until they finally take hold. Then, Rosa mounts her to replace her hands. The sexes solder when they meet. Kate doesn’t know how long they strum against each other. Fingers and tongues are all she makes sense of, how they flick and curl together once they meet. She wants so badly to come with Rosa, but can’t hold out. She can only oblige when Rosa eases off, dying off, plucking as she aspires to flourish.
Rosa doesn’t need sex to turn her on. Her fingers emerge to recede. She has countless pores, erogenous orifices that are just as sensitive, magnified under the act of sight.
All eyes on me.
She wants an audience.
Kate wants more. She claws after Rosa, groaning and groping, plying to draw the model apart until the figure loses shape. Nothing registers except their breaths, furtive sounds of suckling, the beats of the clits that swam back and forth. Musk consorts with moisture to draw a new life that reveres all that yields and opens.
Until, worlds away, Kate hears those who scatter about the club. Dancers negotiate for more cash. Patrons settle on whatever accords the pulse of ambiance. The air holds a desirous hint of the approaching evening, a subtle shift that marks the onset of favours.
Adjusting her thong, Rosa considers a comeback. She needs a memorable moniker. ‘Rosa’ is a plain name, hard to retain. Kate agrees even though she thinks it’s a lovely name all the same.
Rosa decides to go by her surname.
Juarez.