1. The Secret Sharers


    Date: 10/3/2017, Categories: Fiction, Erotica, Extreme, Lesbian, Author: Cynthiia23, Rating: 25, Source: sexstories.com

    Who are these women? Could either of them be me? I look at this scene through the eyes of a girl waking up from a slumber party. I look with innocent eyes. Eyes that say, this could be me. This has been me. Giggling girls. Sleep away camp. An overnight high school excursion. College roommates. Sorority sisters. Road trips. First apartment. Cheap vacations. Six to a room. Many times. I look with innocent eyes. At friends, secret sharers, confidantes, a warm shoulder, beautiful breasts. Beautiful breasts? Did I just say that? I've never even thought that. I roll over onto my side and try to regain sleep. The same sleep that had been visited and disturbed over and over again by a shadowy image. An image too vague to gain shape, too ethereal to take on weight and substance. An image that I know but have never acknowledged. Then why does she disturb me so? How do I even know that it's a she? With closed eyes I will it away, or, if not away, then to change. Please change to the familiar, I beg. Or at least take on the smells and textures that I've known in the past. The weight that I've laid beneath, the rhythm that isn't mine. Yet it refuses to budge, this weightless, shapeless, colorless thing. This breeze who visits me only when the night is at its darkest. This spectre who makes my skin flush, who leaves me damp and uneasy. I don't know her yet I see her everywhere. In magazines, on billboards, a TV sitcom, even in a video I once rented and watched over and over again. Angry ...
    and fascinated at the same time. Who are these women? When my bedmate in a sleep far deeper than mine rolls against me, I find that instead of retreating I draw her into me, burying my face in her sleepy hair. It's such an easy gesture, so natural. We're just two girls keeping warm, snuggling up. This is innocent, I tell myself. Someone happening upon us wouldn't think otherwise. Girls always get cold. We're naturally more affectionate then men. We need to be held. This is all that you see, nothing more. So why then am I holding my breath? Why is every inch of my skin that touches hers' suddenly exquisitely sensitive? I wait in a dreadful silence. Because the last thing I want right now is for her not to be here against me. It's not until the pressure in my lungs becomes unbearable that I exhale and soften against this beautiful creature lying next to me. And then it becomes easier. My other hand finds the warm smoothness of her back -- her modest sleep shirt having left it conveniently bare to my touch. And I drift downward over that ass I've admired and longed for so many times. In tight jeans, loose skirts, silk, rayon and lycra. And now it's beneath my hand, warm and smooth and soft and suddenly, alive! I feel a subtle shift of her hips. Certainly not from anything of my own doing. My hands are so light they'd be unnoticeable. Especially to one so asleep. No, I've imagined it. Wished it. Her breathing is deep and symmetrical. I caress again. And again the response is there. ...
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