Impact 12: of Severences

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For those who pay attention to such things: When Sarah is alone the story is in the past tense. When Claire and Sarah are together (or speaking to one another on the phone) the story is in present tense.

As always, I hope you enjoy this story, that you will post comments.

Thanks to HaltWhoGoesThere for copy editing.

of Severences

We are intertwined; arms and legs wrapping each other. I squeeze Claire tight, clinging to her like a castaway.

There’s a breeze coming from the open window, distant sounds of trucks and cars, more immediately birds sing and chirp, a dog barks. The city is quiet. It’s still very early. I open my eyes, Claire’s hazel eyes are bright and shining. Our noses are touching.

“Good morning Sarah,” she coos, stretching her spine, cheeks flush, arms flexing, her fingers tighten in my hair. Her skin feels smooth and cool as it moves against mine, soft and giving, but beneath her flesh feels firm and wonderfully kinetic. Muscles in her torso flex powerfully, fingertips push at me, nails scratch, arms and legs push and bend, her long hair tickles as she slithers down the bed. Wet lips find my nipple, a hand cups my breast, squeezing.

“Good morning Claire,” I hush, rubbing my face against the pillow; the smell of her hair. My hands join hers, offering my breasts to her, encouraging her to squeeze harder. I want her to bruise me.

I feel a burst of heat at my core as her left arm circles my waist. Claire embracing me this way, nursing me, it’s something out of a dream I’d forced myself to forget, a fantasy too long denied. I move my hands, holding her head and shoulder, clutching her to me. My breasts ache, seem to swell. Her roaming hand is grabbing my ass, my legs spread wide, wrapping around her waist. I squirm as her grip slides under my ass, between my legs and fingers push into me.

“You’re so wet,” she husks, a smile in her voice. “You can again,” she insists.

And she’s right. I feel insatiable. Last night I’d ridden Claire’s face, cumming so hard I splashed her and thought I might faint. I’d been gasping as I’d climbed off her, babbling and laughing, I’d whispered as we kissed; telling her how beautiful she was, how happy she made me.

“The show is over,” she had said, reaching to turn off the lights, making us invisible to her neighbor Helen, who had watched us through the open window. Her hands had moved over me in the dark, gently exploring, her mouth very near my ear, whispering in French. At first I’d tried to understand what she was telling me. She seemed to be telling a story punctuated over and over by “ma coeur” and “ma amour”. The sound of her voice would have been enough, but her touch, her care, her perfect sympathy, had me stretching and arching; moaning loudly into the darkness. The whole time she had stared into my eyes, watched my expressions. Her eyes had glittered in the dark with fascination and delight at my rising frenzy. She had fingered me to another explosive orgasm, soothing me as I jerked and twisted, putting me to sleep in a puddle of my own making with gentle caresses and airy sounds of half understood affections.

Desire is something I’ve struggled with, fought off and fought for – but with Claire, something in me seemed to have been cracked open. This all comes so effortlessly with her and is so welcome. My body doesn’t just follow her lead, it leads me to her.

“This is what I’ve always wanted,” I confess. My voice is high and quiet, hardly a sound at all. “You are what I’ve always wanted Claire,” I whine.

Gasping, my hips thrust and buck as the trail of wet kisses down my belly leads her mouth to my sex. Her open mouth covers me, tongue sliding over smooth skin, parting me easily, honing in on my clit, which pulses with a need that feels bigger than me. The cheeks of my ass flex and tighten until they threaten to cramp. My ass is pushing against the mattress, forcing my cunt upwards.


Pursed lips smiling, one hand still holding my breast, fingers pinching my swollen nipple, her tongue swirls and she sucks.

I should stop her, take her place, but my ass lifts off the bed entirely as her hand joins her mouth between my legs. My hands push her down, pull her to me. She makes a loud satisfied sound deep in her throat as her tongue makes way for fingers pushing into me. Lips and tongue focus on my clitoris, which feels enormous and steely. Fingers are stretching me, two then three… I can’t tell, she’s pushing so deep.

“Claire, yessss, oh God Claire pleassse,” I hiss and moan. She is sucking hard. Pushing her tongue with all its force.

I think of the way she looks at my mouth, talks about how much she loves it. But for me it’s Claire’s eyes – smiling up at me as she licks my pussy now – but also when she looks down on me with such intense desire when I eat her out.

‘Mutually, reciprocally…’

How have I waited so long istanbul travesti for this? For her. Why couldn’t I have found Claire years ago? Why couldn’t I have been this woman all along? I am trying to hold her gaze, to lock the image of her expression in my memory forever, but I am writhing beneath her. Finally I can’t any longer. My body lifts off the mattress arching off the bed like a bridge. Me neck rolls my skull until the top of my head, my elbows and hands, my feet, are all that support me; ass clenching, back arching.

“Christ!” I swear blindly. “Oh Jesus Christ Claire!”

Her fingers grip the cheeks of my ass, holding me up, holding me to her mouth, she’s eating me like fruit. Her mouth is greedy, exploring. Her tongue and lips are pushing wet. And yes, her mouth. God her mouth, her mouth. She is moving through me. The feel of her tongue, the movements of her jaw, can touch be beautiful? I can’t…


I spasm and flail. She lets my ass drop, but her mouth follows me down. Lips soft and tongue playful, she gently sucks while I shiver. Again I’ve soaked her sheets and mattress. I’m in a warm puddle of her making. It feels heavenly under my still squirming ass. Claire slows and finally stops as I calm down.

“I like it when you get loud!” she announces happily as she gives me one last wet kiss and starts to pull away.

“Nooo…” I whine, clutching her to me. “Not yet.”

Claire laughs and gives my hips a little squeeze.

“I have to piss like a draft horse.”

“You mean race horse,” I mumble, letting her go, watching naked backside as she climbs out of bed and stretches. She leaves the door open and I listen to her pee. It’s like she’s opened a spigot. I remember how embarrassed I’d been peeing in front of Claire that first time. It had been so horribly loud and there was nothing I could do to silence it. She had acted as if nothing was happening.

This is louder. I try to stifle a gasp.

“No,” she insists, oblivious to my reaction or just entirely unashamed. “I definitely meant draft horse.”

I can’t help laughing.

It’s only when I get up to pee while she brushes her teeth that I realize exactly how early it is.

“Ish ay vey long day,” she mushes past the scrubbing of her brush. White foam dripping down her chin, she explains that she will need to go in early to work to make sure the last of the crates have arrived and will clear customs. She will leave for the airport directly from the gallery this evening. There’s a lot of detail, but most of it is incomprehensible. I laugh, which makes her smile down at me and touch my cheek. I’m still on the toilet. I try to remember if Danny ever saw me pee… I’m certain he didn’t.

I make her coffee and yogurt while she rushes to do all the packing she was meant to do last night. She is businesslike and efficient, but clearly stressed. She doesn’t babble or laugh or even smile. I think of her strange demeanor last night. When she had asked about staying with me there had seemed to be something more – something she was holding back. Was she nervous about her mother coming to town, about me meeting her? The idea is intimidating. I think again of her mother’s beautiful lingerie. Will she find me plain?

‘It’s not like she’ll know,’ I think, trying to reassure myself. ‘I’ll just be some girl.’

But Claire will know.

“Does your mother speak English?”

“Yes of course. And German and Italian.”

I imagine introducing Claire to my parents. I picture her struggling to connect with my father – his furious blue eyes, his harping on about the church. I can picture her trying to charm him, to win him over… struggling to understand his slurred speech. I think of my mother, who must be so dowdy and unsophisticated compared to Claire’s mother.

I remember the joke the French Ambassador told me at Sophie Calle’s gallery dinner when I told him I didn’t speak French.

“What do you call someone who speaks two languages?” he had asked.

“I don’t know, bilingual?” I’d answered.

“Yes,” he laughed. “And three languages?”


“Exactly!” He said with a show of approval. Then asking, with a mischievous smile, “and someone who speaks only one language?”

I had been all ready to answer polyglot. He had stumped me. I shook my head.

“An American!” he said in triumph. I had laughed with him, but I’d felt the sting of his rebuke.

I didn’t try and explain that I understood some French, that I had taken AP French all through high school, but had let it slip while at Brown. My mother meanwhile hadn’t even studied a foreign language while in high school – something she always regretted.

I imagine taking my parents to meet Claire at her gallery. How would they react? Would they be intimidated or defensive? Would they even try to understand the art? Would my father even understand Sophie Calle? Would istanbul travestileri my mother turn away from Marlyn Minter’s paintings in disgust? Will Claire think my mother is provincial and dull?

‘Am I ashamed to introduce Claire to my mother?’ I wonder with a jolt of gut twisting guilt.

The guilt is ugly and dark.

‘I am a shitty daughter,’ I realize, picturing my mother’s tired movements as she cleaned the house after a long day at work. ‘My mother deserves better.’

I think of how young she was when she had gotten pregnant with me – Kelly’s age. I picture my little sister, her tantrums and moods. She still has stuffed animals on her bed. So much of my mother’s life has been spent raising us, working, taking care of dad. Florida is the farthest she’s ever traveled.

I look over at Claire who is in the bathroom nervously going through her toiletries for the third or fourth time. I try to shake the image of her disappointment and my own awful clawing guilt as I turn to choose an outfit from her giant antique armoire.

She has so many beautiful clothes. I pick a pair of black slacks I’ve admired and a loose gray cashmere cardigan over a stretchy white top with little shoulder straps, skipping a bra. I study myself in the mirror deciding I am as Safe For Work as my figure allows. The slacks are tight in the ass but not indecently so. The shirt compresses my breasts and shows no cleavage. The cardigan nicely hides the fact that I’m braless. I slip on a pair of Prada slingback pumps. They have a curious little “comma” heel that I LOVE. I wonder if Claire will veto my choice, hoping she won’t.

I make sure to show her, doing a little turn, kicking up a foot to show her, but she’s oblivious to my footwear, and everything else. She is checking and rechecking everything one last time before closing and latching her suitcase. She looks so serious as she closes and latches her Rimowa.

What she does next surprises me. She drags everything to the front door and lays the big aluminum rolling case down on the floor, sits on it and piles her carry-on bag and purse in her lap. She looks so silly I almost laugh, but her expression is still deadly earnest.

“What are you-“

“Five minutes!” she demands, holding a hand up for peace. “Give me five minutes.”

I don’t understand, but I watch her. She’s all made up and dressed for work sitting on her oversized luggage, she doesn’t talk or even look around. She just stares at nothing, eyes focused on the middle distance. And after a while I realize she doesn’t mean five minutes figuratively, and seat myself at the kitchen island. She stares through the world for a full five minutes.

I watch her, sipping my cold coffee and nibbling at the remnants of the croissant we’d shared.

Finally, with a glance at her watch, she gets up and walks through the apartment one more time, looking at all her things, double checking.

“Sorry,” she says, dropping into the stool next to mine. “It’s an old trick – Russian folk wisdom, I think? I learned from a friend. It’s meant to help you from forgetting anything you need. I am notorious for forgetting my bathing suit and losing my passport. Business travel gives me a lot of anxiety.”

“Sitting on your suitcase helps?”

“It works!” she insists, scraping chocolate off my lip, and sucking it off her thumb with a naughty grin. “Or it has so far…”

“Knock wood!” I tell her, rapping the counter with my knuckles.

“Time to go…”

I help Claire get her bags down to the corner. We stand together holding hands watching for cabs. She hails one with a whistle that turns heads for blocks. We help the cabbie load her bags in the trunk. Before climbing in the car behind him she takes me by the waist and kisses me goodbye. Her kiss is long and deep, she bends me back with its force.

I want to tell her how happy I am to have found her, how full my heart is; how much I love her.

“Wish me bon voyage.”

“Bon voyage Claire.”

And she’s gone.

I got to work almost an hour early, but wasn’t surprised to find my inbox already full of emails from Jen and Kathy – they seemed to have assumed I was going to work all night for them.

‘Whatever, bitches…’ I thought, my eye landing on a sender I didn’t recognize. HelenM…

The email was there at the very top of my cue. It had only been sent a few minutes earlier. The subject line was “ICU2”.

Good morning Sarah, It was so lovely to see you last night. I had a wonderful time visiting with you, and finally meeting Claire. Thanks again for the glass of wine. I stayed up smoking till quite late, but you knew that. I do hope to see both you and Claire again very soon. xoH

I had of course given Helen my card but still reading the email at work caught me off guard; a message from another life.

I pictured Helen smoking in her dark travesti istanbul study, her beautiful thick white hair, her heavy round breasts, watching me mount and fuck Claire’s face, Claire’s hands clawing at my ass, urging me on. I squeezed my legs together and felt myself blush at Helen’s double entendres and thinly veiled allusions, at the memory of what I had done to Claire and what Claire had done to me while Helen watched from her study, of how exciting it had been to see the glow of her cigarette across the way.

I decided I would respond to Helen later, that I didn’t know what to say, and if I didn’t email Jen and Kathy right away they would barge through the door to make their demands in person.

I let them know we were in good shape, that I’d gotten everything they’d shared and was getting an early start. I promised to invite them into the workspace later that afternoon, but that I wouldn’t have anything to show them until then. My hope was that that would buy me a few hours of uninterrupted work. I opened my files and, after a quick review, got to work.

I was genuinely surprised when Ben put a salad on my desk. I blinked at him and the big clear plastic bowl, trying to understand. My incomprehension must have shown.

“It’s one o’clock,” he told me, gesturing at the salad. “Eat.”

I might have waited a bit longer to share the workspace with Jen and Kathy, but picking at the salad with my fingers I realized I didn’t have enough approved text to keep going. The only way to get them to finalize anything was for them to see all the dummy text I was working with. So I let them in and watched the fireworks.

I pushed the salad aside, and began to process the incoming volley of changes. It was like a drunken match of wack-a-mole, with Kathy suggesting changes and me gently stopping her from ruining the piece by rejecting her terrible ideas – which I could do because I had the biggest hammer:

“I don’t think we have time to do that if you want it done tonight,” I kept replying. Jen, who I knew must be busy on other pieces, only chimed in to resolve these disagreements, almost always backing me, shooting Kathy down again and again.

“Don’t stay too late.”

I looked up to see Keith shoulder his bag and looked around for Ben. Keith laughed.

“Ben told you goodnight twenty minutes ago… twice.”

“Oh, I’m uh…”

“You’re in the zone,” he told me approvingly, “but I mean it, don’t stay too late.”

“I won’t,” I promised. “I’ve got this whipped, Jen and Kathy are fucking psyched.”

“I know they are, they’ve been emailing me all day. Good work. See you tomorrow Sarah.”

I already had all the finalized text and images. Everything was signed off on. The only hold up was some thorny bugs with the code but even so I finished by eight. Emailing a “W00T!” to the dynamic duo, I started to shut everything down and pack up when I stopped myself. I needed to email Helen back.

Helen, Thanks so much for keeping Claire’s seat warm. It was such a pleasure to meet you and visit, and so exciting to find out we have such a wonderful admirer just across the way. I love that we caught your eye. Claire is away on business for the next couple weeks, but I’m sure you will see us both as soon as she returns. xoS

I stared at my screen, heart pounding. Was it too much? I shocked myself by hitting send before I had a chance to hesitate or reconsider. I immediately quit and shut down, watching the screen go black while the pounding of my heart slowed.

It occurred to me that I still had not heard back from Jen or Kathy, which was strange after how badly they had pestered me all day. After replying to Helen I was especially anxious to be anywhere but my desk, so I grabbed my things and headed over to Style. My thinking was, I could make any last minute changes from there, but if they had decided they needed something big changed, I’d just tell them I was late for a thing and we’d start again tomorrow. Fuck their deadline.

The newsroom was pretty empty, a few people working late here and there. Slow news day I guess…

When I got to Style I thought maybe I’d missed something. No one was around their corner of the bullpen, Kathy wasn’t at her desk.

‘Did those bitches go home?’ I wondered, but then I saw Jen’s office door was ajar. I walked over and opened it, surprised to see Kathy sitting in the dark, tipped back in Jen’s chair with one foot on Jen’s desk. I heard the small wet sounds, the labored breathing, but it didn’t register.

“Is everything alri-” I started.

Kathy’s head spun at me in alarm. That’s when I heard a muffled cry from between her legs and noticed the top of Jen’s head, saw her feet peeking out from the side of her desk.

“OHMYGOSHIMSOSORRY!” I blurted and backed out the door – or tried to. I hit the door jamb, banging the goose egg on the back of my head hard enough to make me see stars. I doubled over in pain.


“Are you ok?!”

It was Jen, on her knees, her short hair tussled, lips and chin shining wet. She looked genuinely concerned.

“Yeah…” I moaned reflexively, then once again seeing the two women, in flagrante delicto, I started backing my way out.

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