For Day 5 of @terroryuriweek here’s some lesbian GoodCollins as faculty at a 1960s girls college run by Drs. Stephania Stanley and Alexandria McDonald: (NSFW)
“You know, Miss Goodsir,” Hattie grins, “you didn’t need an excuse to get me over here.” God, she looks good standing there in the glow of the porchlight. Radiant, sturdy. She seems to fill the doorway.
“If you’ll notice, Miss Collins, it really <I>is</I> quite cold in here,” Harriet replies as she steps aside to let Hattie in (and watch her enter). It’s a bracing, breezy Saturday evening in November, Harriet’s favorite time of year. Hattie’s come straight from the usual pick-up rugby match, an open-ended affair that had gone on all the brilliant, frigid afternoon and into the cold seep of evening til the stars had come out and the girls, laughing and clutching thermoses of cocoa in wind-chapped hands, had straggled back to their dormitories. And now here is their coach and ad hoc campus handyman Hattie here to fix Harriet’s wood stove. She smells of sweat and bonfire and very faintly of cologne. Mud too, maybe grass. After all, there’s mud on her knees, which are all pink from exerting herself in the Autumn air, and mud too on the stripe-cuffed socks pulled up over her heavy, muscular calves. Harriet wants to taste it all.
“Oh, yes, it is damned cold in here,” Hattie concedes, looking at the little potbellied stove. Harriet had let it go out that morning, choosing to trek instead to the empty campus library to grade student papers. “This old thing, I take it? Just not putting out enough heat?”
“Yes. I can get up a little fire. But not enough to keep warm. And there’s an awful amount of smoke.”
“Poor darling. Need someone to keep you warm then?”
Harriet flushes but tries to put on her best dry bluestocking voice regardless. “Perhaps afterward. Business before pleasure.”
“Yes, Miss. I’ll be holding you to it though.”
“Mm, promise. We’ll seal it thus.” She goes lightly up on tiptoes to ghost her lips against the corner of Hattie’s mouth. It is not meant as an overture so much as the dog-earing of a page or, like she said, a promise. But Hattie swiftly draws her up close and kisses her full on, all lively and seeking and, frankly, a bit bossy, and so quick is she about it that Harriet for a moment goes obediently soft in those strong arms, pliant. Down between her thighs she feels it already, her labia and pelvic floor already flexing at nothing the way they do when there is something they want. Each tiny, hot flutter of muscle dampens her panties a little until sometimes she swears they’re so sodden she could wring them out like a rag.
Normally she resolves it alone with the half-grim, indifferent briskness with which one handles any distasteful perfunctory act. With the pads of her fingers she rolls her clit side-to-side against the anterior ridge of her pelvic bone, setting a cantering pace and thinking only indirectly of who or what provoked the nervy, urgent longing in the first place. If she thinks of anything directly it is the process itself, the body beneath her hand not as a thing she loves but as a phenomenon like any other in nature that impels rapt observation: the artery straddling the thing, a leg crooking down each side of the hood; how when she comes she can sometimes feel this artery itself swell beneath her fingers and she drives, drives, drives her stroking down into it, softening the orgasm and drawing it out—
And when it is done it is done for a good long while. Five minutes it takes, ten. You get very good at it when you are as dull and plain as she has always believed herself to be. And you come to understand that the best part goes before, the slow warm build, the imagining, the wanting.
Even though she has a partner for the moment, she sees no need to think of it any differently. She intends to make this last. And anyway, the wind is cold outside the window, moaning all ghostly and lonesome around the outside of the cottage. She pulls away.