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Samira looks around Santos’s apartment, eyeing the decor, the traces of Whitaker strewn about what’s otherwise a very clean layout.
“Don’t worry about Huckleberry,” Santos says, tossing her jacket on the knob of a kitchen chair. “He’s off with his little farm girl doing the dishes or some other handy thing.”
“The one whose husband died last year?” Samira shucks off her own coat, folding it over the back of another chair. “Since when?”
“Pretty much right after he kicked it,” is the answer she gets, following Santos’s lead into her living room. “Drives up to the farm, milks a couple cows, milks something else, comes back before 6 for the next shift. He won’t be back before 5.”
The snow falls outside, glittering in the streetlamps, and the view is great. She can see the river from here, and it was only a ten minute walk from the hospital, something Samira can’t scoff at when her car battery died.
“How’d you get this nice a place so close to river on an intern’s budget?”
“No one wants to live bumper to bumper with the cemetery,” she says, pointing the opposite direction of the windows. “Besides, under the rug there’s a huge wood stain. Guy died up here and no one bothered checking in for a while. Blood stains on nice wood don’t make for a great price hike.”
Samira looks down at the rug and makes a face. Santos laughs and falls back on a chair. Her face stays the same as she looks at her, dirty scrubs and all, sitting in a cloth recliner. It makes her skin crawl a little, thinking of everything that could be living on those clothes.
“Soooo,” she says from the chair. “Is there something on my face? My hair? What’s the problem here?”
“Your scrubs are still on,” she tells her, and Santos glances down at herself before looking back at her.
“Eyup.” Her hands go up, pulling the ponytail from her hair and rubbing at her scalp. She got a haircut recently. “I don’t like to change ‘til I shower, who wants to put clean clothes on dirty skin? And this thing came with the place. I’m not too worried about contamination of my dead guy chair.”
Samira, looking at the way her greasy hair frames her face, falls to her shoulders, crimps in at the middle of her neck from the thirteen hours it spent cinched in the elastic, swallows. “So why not shower?”
“Figured I’d offer it to you, Dr. Mohan,” she says, grinning. “Chivalry may be dead but my hospitality isn’t. I have some clothes for you too, if you want. You’re on your own for underwear, I have to draw the line somewhere.”
Samira thinks of the extra pair of underwear in her backpack, along with socks, and instead of mentioning this blurts out, “You can call me Samira.”
Santos looks at her, a little bug eyed, and recovers nicely. “Well, Samira,” and she doesn’t like the feeling she gets in her throat hearing her say that, “you can call me Trinity. It’s only fair, everyone that sleeps at my place gets to call me Trinity.”
There’s an insinuation there, an innuendo, and Samira turns before the darkening of her cheeks gives her away. She grabs her backpack, takes the emergency pouch that has her extra underwear, socks, a toothbrush, comb, and everything else she might need one day, and walks towards the hall.
“First door on the right, clean towels are in the cabinet,” Santos— Trinity calls after her. She waves a hand in acknowledgment and shuts the door tight behind her.
The shower is slow to heat up and blasts cold onto her naked shoulders. The head is low, a small thing that Trinity has clearly never bothered to replace, but the pressure is high. It beats at her skin, sweaty and grimy from a day sprinting back and forth from room to room. The room steams up quickly after the heat kicks in and it soothes her tired muscles. Samira dunks her head under the stream and scrubs at her scalp to soak her curls. She feels the grit under her fingers, sweat that crystallized on the walk here, a scab from scratching at her head too hard, grease and oil that coat her fingers as they glide through her hair.
Trinity’s shampoo is in the corner, a lemon and tea tree oil number that tingles over her scalp as she washes the day off. Head tipped forward, eyes closed, face in a mask of hair, she lathers and scrubs roughly at her roots. This is what Trinity smells like, this sharp lemon scent that lingers as she walks by. It foams at her feet as she rinses, and she holds a hand up to shield her eyes as she reaches for the matching conditioner.
She’s halfway through soaping up with her bodywash, a eucalyptus and mint scent that makes her feel like she’s gone to a spa, when there’s a knock at the door.
“Yeah?” she calls out, violently aware of the placement of her hands on her body. She shouldn’t be able to see through the curtain, there’s the water liner and the fabric outside afterall, but the idea of being seen, silhouette soaping up, prickles at her.
“Just bringing you some clothes,” Trinity calls from outside the door. “Is it okay if I come in and leave them on the sink?”
“Yeah,” she says, hackles back down. Obviously she’d be dropping off the clothes. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
The door creaks open and Samira can see the shadow of her enter on the ceiling, hears the sound of fabric, and then footsteps as the door shuts again.
She tries to be quicker after that, Trinity still needs to shower, and they’re both tired from an over-long shift. But it’s such a surreal experience that Samira can’t help but revel in it a little. She hasn’t thought of Trinity Santos as anything but a younger resident for most of their time working together. She’s stubborn, full of herself, argues with anyone who gets in her way, and yet here she is in her shower, spending the night on her couch because her car died in the snow. It clashes with the image of her she has in her head.
It makes her cringe a little, viewing Trinity as some sort of uncaring megalomaniac when she’s offered her home up to her. It’s just for the night, but it makes her think. Sure, she’s brusque with the patients and other doctors, sure she jokes about dead people and comes up with increasingly mean nicknames for everyone around her, but she… has a heart?
The facewash scrubs over her cheeks and forehead, quick and efficient, and Samira rinses off. The shower turns off with a squeak and she steps onto the bathmat. The towel cabinet is just out of reach so she shuffles the mat over to grab one. Her usual routine is interrupted by the fact that she’s not home, but it’s easy enough to find a face lotion in the mirror shelving.
She slips her extra underwear on and examines the clothing left for her. A pair of basketball shorts, hitting just above her knees, and an old baggy t-shirt with the logo of some girl’s basketball team she’s never heard of. It fits her all fine, cinching the shorts tight at her waist. Tackling her hair is a little more difficult. The leave-ins she uses aren’t at her disposal, and all she really has to work with is her comb. It snags and she winces, but pushes through. The end result is frizzier than she’d like but it works for the night.
Trinity is back in her dead guy chair when Samira exits the bathroom, and she catches her slurping down the last of a bowl of cereal. She looks up at her when she enters, and is it a half second too long? Just an extra moment taking her in? Or is Samira imagining things?
“Man, you look different with your hair down,” is what she says eventually, tipping the last of the milk into her mouth. “Uhhhh, feel free to raid my kitchen while I shower. There’s not a lot right now, it’s Hucklefuck’s turn to get the groceries and he’s been farming all week, but I got cereal and some stuff for a PB and J if you’re interested.”
Samira’s stomach chooses that moment to growl and Trinity grins. “I’ll take that as you’re interested.”
“Thanks again,” she says as she walks into the kitchen, grabbing a bowl from the drying rack and the Mini Wheats left out on the table. “I really could’ve called an Uber.”
“And make you wait any longer at that place? Please, I’m not that mean.” She pulls her scrub top off, long sleeve undershirt riding up past her waist as she does. Samira can’t help looking at the softness of her stomach, the little bit of a happy trail leading down her pants, the way her waist curves in a way she never sees in the formless scrubs they’re always wearing. She feels her cheeks flame and turns back to pouring her cereal, pulse throbbing in her neck.
“Just come in if you need anything, I shouldn’t be too long.”
“Thanks,” Samira says to the milk jug as she pours. Trinity snorts and shuts the door behind her.
She eats her cereal in silence, scrolling through her phone, texting her mom back, trying to get the image of under her shirt out of her brain. She feels like a teenager, lusting after a girl she doesn’t even like.
Trinity, true to her word, doesn’t take long. The shower squeaks off just before ten minutes as Samira finishes the last of her soggy wheat. She doesn’t wait, does not, scrolls her phone as a distraction, drinks the remaining milk, and then the door opens.
It’s a plume of steam, illuminated by the lights inside, and Trinity steps out with a towel under her arms. Her wet hair clings in strings to her neck, straight and dark, and there’s a dewyness to her face. The towel cuts off mid thigh and Samira devoutly looks down and not at the length of her legs below it. Her eyes linger as she turns to walk to her bedroom, towel clinging to her body in a way that makes Samira lightheaded.
When she comes back out, she’s wearing sleep shorts that also cut off mid thigh and a black tank top that hikes up just above the waistline of her shorts. Upon closer inspection, she’s not wearing a bra, which Samira notices and it makes her immediately aware of her own state of undress. The t-shirt she’s in is big enough to cover the fact that she doesn’t have anything on underneath it, but she hadn’t even considered it, bra still gross from work.
Trinity’s apartment is warm, but there’s still a chill in the air, and Samira can see her nipples peak under the thin fabric holding them. She looks back down at her phone, casual, cool, ignoring the heat flaring between her legs. She walks by, holding out a hand, and Samira looks at it.
“Your bowl,” she says expectantly. She hands it off and Trinity goes to the kitchen, the sound of running water filling the air as she rinses it out and sticks the bowl and spoon in her dishwasher.
“Sooooo,” comes from her mouth as she enters her living room. She leans on the back of the couch, wrists crossed, face near Samira’s. “D’you wanna do anything? Do you just want me to make up the bed so you can sleep? I didn’t actually ask, are you working tomorrow?”
“I would be, but Mel asked to switch. She said she had an appointment with her sister next week and needed it covered, and as much as I love it there, I could use a day off.”
“Wow.” Trinity pushes off the couch and walks back towards the kitchen. “The great Dr. Mohan taking a day off?”
She takes a can out of her fridge, cracks the tab, holds the seltzer up to Samira in offering. She almost declines but thinks twice before answering “Yeah, why not,” because she has the day off tomorrow. And her car battery is fried. And today was a long, long day, even if they did get out mostly on time, and hell, it’s not even nine yet.
She tosses her one, a pineapple flavor, and Samira snaps it open, mouth on the hole as it starts to fizz over so she catches most of it save for a trickle that runs down her neck. She licks the back of her hand, rubbing it before it can get Trinity’s shirt too badly, and licks again to get the liquid off.
“Sorry,” Trinity says, fridge still open in front of her. “Probably shouldn’t have thrown that.”
”Sorry about your shirt,” she says, looking down at the damp marks around the neckline. “What team is this anyway?”
”Girls basketball from my undergrad. Was fucking the team captain and got all the free t-shirt perks. Plus, you know, the perk of fucking a basketball lesbian. That couple months was crazy.” She leans back at that, shutting the fridge and walking over to the couch. She flops onto the unused side, folding her legs up under herself so her entire body rests on the couch next to Samira.
“Mmm.” Samira eyes the body next to her and chugs about half the can. It really was a long day, a semi truck crashing during the morning rush hour and causing a ricochet of accidents on the interstate. One death on her patient lists, a lot more on the rest of her coworkers. She doesn’t want to think of the husband of the woman she lost, hands in his hair, repeating “no” over and over and—
“Hey,” Trinity says, nudging Samira out of her spiral with a foot. “You good? I know it was a rough day, but you’ve got the day off tomorrow. Don’t have to deal with all the bullshit.”
”Rough doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Samira says into her can. Maybe everyone’s right. She went into the ED for a reason, wanted to help people that others ignored, but maybe she just isn’t cut out for it.
”Jeez, I gave you the White Claw to chill out, not get depresso on me.” She laughs at that, and Trinity perks up in the corner of her vision. “Come on, what do you do after work to decompress?”
”Uhh,” she fumbles, because suddenly all she can think of is the vibrator in her night stand, shutting off her brain in a carnal pleasures kind of way. “A shower and some reading usually.”
”Right.” Trinity draws the i out, making it sound like she really, super duper believes her. “A shower and some reading. And that’s everything.”
”Alright then, hot rod, what do you do to relax after work?”
”Hot rod?” Trinity cracks up, holding her can out of the way so she doesn’t slosh it everywhere. “That’s one I’ve never heard before. Jesus, what the hell?”
”Hot shot, sorry,” Samira mutters. “Said the wrong word.”
The giggle next to her makes her brain blank out, and she looks at Trinity, grinning big as she recovers from Samira calling her a stupid name. Her light eyes seem to sparkle, and she sips her seltzer, catching up.
”That’s adorable,” she says, wiping at her eyes, and Samira flushes. “And come on, we’re both adults. I jack off to decompress. And obviously you do too.”
She stammers, trying to find the words to deny it before taking a big drink that sticks in her throat. “I don’t,” is all she comes up with.
“Suuuure you don’t. That’s why your answer to that was a shower and some reading, like the most picture perfect resident around.”
“I am the most picture perfect resident around,” Smaira shoots back. “Just because I’m not always telling everyone that I am doesn’t make me not good.”
Trinity drinks to that, squinting her eyes at her. “And does the most picture perfect resident jack off?”
“Yes! Alright? You caught me out. I ‘jack off’ after work sometimes. Are you happy?”
“A little,” Trinity says honestly. “It’s nice to see that you have a selfish side.”
“Selfish?” Samira sets her drink down hard on the table next to her. “How the fuck is that selfish?”
“I dunno, you sort of seem like the kind to martyr herself to death, you know? Think about all the mistakes you make as a doctor until it kills you kinda thing.”
“I do plenty of that, too.” She looks Trinity up and down, lingering on her chest, hoping the darkening of her face can be attributed to the alcohol. Christ, what is she doing, looking at her like that? This isn’t… whatever Samira’s brain is trying to make it into, anyway. She’s just pent up, from the high strung day, from the lack of ‘jacking off’ as Trinity so nicely put it, from the dry spell she can’t even remember the start day of. Not to mention, she doesn’t even particularly like Trinity. She could be a good doctor, if she tried. But she blows off everyone’s help and advice.
Except hers, she remembers from the Pittfest disaster.
“You could use some self reflection, you know,” she says, and the moment she does she knows it’s a mistake. Trinity’s face falls, and Samira tries to fix it. “I didn’t mean– I just meant that you come on a little strong, it isn’t a bad thing–”
“Oh spare me, Dr. Mohan,” she says venomously, and Samira winces. “You don’t need to tell me what every single doctor we work with has already said, including you.”
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, and Trinity looks at her, guarded. “I shouldn’t try to give teaching advice, not when I’m sleeping on your couch and drinking your alcohol. You’re a good doctor, Trinity. You catch things that others might not.”
“Thank you,” she mutters, standing. The back of her neck is red as she swipes her hair off it for a moment. She drains the rest of her drink and crunches the can in her hand. It gets tossed into a nearly overflowing recycling bin. “But?”
“There isn’t a but–”
“Come on,” she turns to face her. “I know there’s a but, just get it over with.”
“But,” Samira says cautiously. Trinity tenses, and Samira grabs her drink, downing the rest of it. There’s a burn in her stomach and a fuzz in her brain that makes this easier, or harder, she’s not quite sure. “Your bedside manner is atrocious, most of the time. Not always. And you’re very sure of yourself, to a fault, and your idea always has to be the best, no matter how little experience you have, and maybe you could take the time to learn about the patients you think are too stupid to be alive because they end up in the ER too often or too late or any other thing that might have an external source that isn’t just being an idiot.”
“Wow,” she says, clearly shocked. “I didn’t know you had that in you.”
“What?”
“Being mean,” she says, blasé. Samira winces, opens her mouth to refute, apologize, something, but Trinity beats her to it. “No, you’re being mean. Sure, it’s probably all true, but that doesn’t make it nice.”
“Do me, then,” Samira says. Trinity’s mouth drops open, speechless, and Samira groans. “No– criticize me. Make it even.”
“That’s not–”
“No, do it. You’re right, I was mean. Now give it back to me.”
Trinity chews on her cheek for a second. Samira waits, holding her empty can, rolling it in her hands, looking up at her with open eyes, ready for whatever it is she’ll give.
“You’re really weird, you know that?”
“Huh?”
“I don’t know. You’re just so… sincere. It’s kind of gross. Everything with you is just feelings this feelings that. You get invested in everything you interact with. Even this! You’re trying to make it equal even after dissecting my treatment style down into all my mistakes that I make daily, like I don’t know all of that already, and I don’t really feel like being an asshole to you. So no, I’m not going to tell you about all your faults as a doctor. You can just… imagine all the shit other people say and choose which one you like the least.”
Samira stares up at her, the flush on Trinity’s cheeks, the wide stance of her feet, her body, strong and sturdy from… gymnastics, that’s what she’s said before. She cares, Samira reminds herself, cares more than she lets on.
“You’re all soft in there, huh?”
Trinity steps back, brows furrowed. Samira leans forward, elbows on her knees, chin resting on the hands that still hold her empty can. She can feel her hair fall forward, sees it in the corners of her vision. Trinity’s eyes dart to the sides of her face, and Samira smiles.
“You are! I knew it, you’re all mushy inside and you’re just mean to everyone so they don’t see it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Trinity says, turning and walking towards the kitchen again. “I’m not dealing with–”
Samira jumps up and catches her wrist, pulling her back slightly as she tries to keep walking. She turns abruptly, looking between the hand on her wrist and Samira’s face. She pulls, experimentally, and Samira lets go.
“Sorry,” Samira says, setting the can down, pulling her hair back with both hands. She goes to put it in a pony tail but stops, noticing Trinity’s hand is still where she left it, outstretched and limp. “Trinity?”
“You really do look good with your hair down,” she says, looking at her hands in her hair. “Sucks it can’t be down like that in the pit.”
“Thanks.” She reaches her hand back out, takes Trinity’s wrist in her fingers gingerly. She doesn’t pull away this time, looking down at their skin touching, chewing on her lip. “You too, you know. The haircut you got last week looks good on you. The bangs especially.”
Trinity blinks, and then she laughs. ‘You’re talking about how I’m all soft inside, look at you. You never even commented last week, but whipping out hair compliments now? Everyone knows you’re mushy but it’s way worse than I thought.”
“I care,” Samira says plainly. “I care about people, I care about patients, and as hard as you make it, I care about you.”
She steps forward and Trinity doesn’t back away. They’re the same height just about, eyes level. Samira switches her wrist to her left hand and touches her hips tentatively with her right. A little puff of air escapes Trinity’s mouth, and she leans into it, tilting her head back just a smidge. It’s an invitation, but Samira hesitates. She looks down her body again, at her nipples stiff in her tank top, the sliver of skin showing between it and her shorts. Her legs, solid, full, firmly standing.
“Am I misreading something here?” Trinity says, and there’s nerves in her voice. “Thought you, uh, I dunno, wanted more than just to look.”
“I do,” Samira says, and her fingers find better purchase at her hip, squeezing the flesh there. “I’m just… waiting.”
“For what?” She steps closer, tries to pull her hand away to do something with, but Samira’s grip tightens. She looks down at it, then back at her face, puzzled, flushed.
“That,” she says, and she kisses her, hand slipping under her tank top, tongue licking over her lips. Trinity’s mouth opens, and Samira takes the offer for what it is. Her tongue slides into her mouth, licking over Trinity’s, sucking at her bottom lip, pulling her closer.
Samira breaks first, pulling back for air, looking at her. Trinity’s eyes flutter open, cheeks pink, mouth wet with spit and hanging open. Samira smiles and Trinity snorts, pulling herself back together.
“Alright, Mohan,” she says, smirking. “Way to take some initiative.”
She lets go of her wrist and pulls her by the face for more, closing her eyes. Trinity opens her mouth nicely, pliant and giving, and oh, it’s been a long time since Samira was with anyone, longer since she’s been with a girl, but she wants to pull off all her clothes, kiss her body silly, fuck her until she’s begging, and–
“Let me see your bedroom,” she huffs out against her lips. “Please?”
Trinity looks at her, pupils huge and dark, and nods, pulling Samira back to her bedroom, the door on the left of the hallway, and this room is nice, too. Her bed is big, surprisingly well made for a doctor, hamper of dirty scrubs and laundry all mixed together. There’s a rug on the floor, keeping the bed from moving out of place, and Trinity has a night stand next to it. She turns the lamp on and flips the big light off, turning to Samira and holding her hands out.
“Tada,” she says sarcastically. “This is my room, is it everything you–”
Samira cuts her off with another kiss, crowding her backwards until her legs hit the mattress and she sits down on instinct. Above her now, she breaks the kiss, looking down at her. Her legs are spread apart, Samira in the way of her closing them, and she looks up at her with want.
“Was the no bra on purpose?”
Trinity looks down at herself and blushes. “I, uh, saw you staring at me before we showered, earlier. Wanted to see if I was right.”
“Well, it worked.” She pulls at the hem of her tank top and pulls up, Trinity lifting her arms to allow her. It slides off her body, tight fabric letting her breasts go with a slight bounce. She pushes her backwards after and she scoots backward on the bed, allowing Samira to crawl on after her. Pressing her shoulders back, Trinity lays down against the pillows at Samira’s command. And oh, isn’t that something? Her tits sit splayed on her chest, and Samira palms over them as they perfectly fit in each of her hands, dusky pink nipples fitting in between her fingers. She squeezes and Trinity sighs.
“Right to it, huh? You a boobs guy? I would’ve pegged you for an ass guy.”
“No, definitely a boobs guy,” Samira says seriously, leaning down to get her face right next to them. She looks up at Trinity, questioning, and gets a nod in response. She shifts her hold, lowers her mouth down to envelop one nipple between her lips. The noise that escapes her makes Samira preen, and she doubles down.
Swirling her tongue, she sucks it into her mouth, gentle at first, a rhythmic motion of her lips. With her hand she squeezes the other, rolling the nipple between her fingers, pulling and twisting in soft tandem with her mouth.
“Fuck,” Trinity says. “Mmn, that feels good.”
Trinity seems like the type to go with the flow, flip her partners around, wring what she wants out of them before getting hers, but she’s met her match in Samira. She’s a pleaser to almost a fault. Almost. She still does it how she likes.
She bites into the flesh of her breast, scrapes her teeth over the pebbled skin in her mouth, and relishes in the broken “Ha-ah!” that comes from Trinity’s lips. Her fingers twist her other one, a tight, unforgiving pull of the tissue. Trinity jerks up, hands scrabbling against her shoulders but not pushing her away. She switches, taking the other nipple in her mouth and teasing her spit slickened one tenderly. She continues like that, a gentle suction before a rough bite, a pull, a twist, suckling at it like she could force it to milk.
“Fucking– touch me,” Trinity says after a while. Her breathing is labored, her hips buck up against Samira’s waist, trying and failing to grind out some sort of pleasure. Samira sits up, Trinity’s legs splayed on either side of her hips. She presses her palm between her open thighs, feeling her heat, savoring it.
Trinity, however, is not savoring anything. She rolls her hips down on her hand, groans and slams her head back into the pillows. “Come on, do you wanna fuck or not?”
“I do,” Samira says, cool as a cucumber, even as her heart thump thump thumps between her ears. She pulls back to rest on her shins, looking down at her, admiring the flush that spreads from her cheeks partway down her chest. The way her nipples, glistening with spit, stiffen in the cool winter air.
Samira pulls off her own shirt but leaves her shorts. She doesn’t miss the way Trinity looks at her, hungry and wanting. She moves to get up but Samira pushes her back down with a gentle hand to her sternum. Her hands go to the waistband of Trinity’s shorts and she lifts her hips up in response, her stomach a solid bridge as Samira shimmies them over her ass and down off her ankles. They fly back over her shoulder, landing with a whump onto her wood flooring.
She’s always been observant, always been able to read people, so when Trinity starts shifting, rolls her legs out and further apart, Samira notices. She notices how she relaxes when she hovers over her to kiss her, and she notices the lines on her thighs when she pulls back to get a good look between her legs.
But now is neither the time nor the place for concern, and Trinity is explicitly asking her not to show it with the way she’s angling her body. It’s for later, maybe, if she’s feeling so bold after this, but for now she’s got work to do.
Her middle finger gathers wetness from her entrance, clear and thick, and trails up, circling around her clit. Trinity’s head pops back down onto the pillows that let out a rush of air. Her thighs tense, and then relax, finally touched, finally getting some.
Samira circles her slowly, ignores the subtle press of her hips up, trying to get more, go faster, anything but the leisurely pace she’s taking. And then she stops, finger pressed harshly from the root to squish her down entirely. Trinity keens, bucks her hips up to gain some friction, and Samira uses her free hand to push her hips back down into the mattress.
“Come— come on, SlowMo,” Trinity grits out. “Fucking… fuck!”
Samira frowns mockingly at the nickname, and Trinity looks at her, really looks at her, and her pupils go big.
“Please?” she says, and it’s small, almost like she doesn’t think she’s allowed to ask so nicely.
“‘Please’ what?”
“Please fuck me. Faster than this. Christ, Samira, do whatever, but please just do it.”
That’s nice enough for her, but Samira’s still not one to move quite as quick as Trinity clearly wants.
She pulls her finger away, leaves the hand on her hip, thumb pressing into the divot below the frame of her pelvis. With two fingers, she rubs at her folds, slicking them up, relishing in Trinity’s frustrated groan as she presses and pulls away, teasing her entrance open around her fingerprints. And then, with no warning whatsoever, she plunges them in, middle and pointer finger curving up into her hot, wet body.
The gasp that comes from below her makes her clench, biting at her lip as she forces herself to hold her fingers still. She’s inside her, and that should be enough for now. But Trinity keeps squirming, trying to fuck herself on Samira’s fingers and that just won’t do.
“Dr. Santos,” she says firmly, and Trinity freezes. “Let me take it slow. I promise, I’ll make you cum. But quit trying to go faster. It’s not gonna work.”
She nods her head and covers her eyes with her hand, smiling. “Man, you really can be a bitch, huh?”
Samira smiles to herself and hooks her fingers up and back. Trinity gasps, clapping the hand on her eyes over her mouth as she moans into her palm, other hand gripping the sheets.
“What was that?”
Trinity shakes her head, eyes still squeezed shut, and she accepts her acquiescence, starting a slow, gentle pace as she curls her fingers back and forth inside her.
Trinity keeps moving, she clearly can’t help it, and Samira gets her to stop with a sharp jab of her fingers each time, granting her the sight of her biting her own palm to keep quiet. She keeps it slow otherwise, a gentle prodding, curling, fucking until Trinity makes these little whimpering noises, chasing after her own pleasure too much to care what sounds she makes.
Her hand comes up from the sheets, reaching to rub at herself, and Samira lets go of her hip to hold it in place, just out of reach. She groans, jerks her hips to get some friction on her clit but to no avail.
“Samira,” she breathes out. “Let me cum, please, I need it.”
“You don’t, not really,” Samira says thoughtfully, and Trinity’s hand jerks in her hold. “Technically speaking, there’s no adverse effects to you not cumming. Sure, it’s uncomfortable, but you’d be fine.”
“Samira,” she whines. “You promised.”
Oh, isn’t that just perfect? The desperation, the need, the sheer want in her whines, the way she looks at her, eyes glossy, cunt fluttering around her fingers as they keep that slow pace that’s driving her up the wall.
“I did,” she says gently, and she sinks down. One handed is hard to do, but she manages to pull her hair into a terrible bun that’s good enough to get it out of her face. Trinity watches her sink down with blown out pupils, perfect breasts heaving in the air as the fingers inside her never stop.
She pulls them out then, though, and Trinity says a resigned “ugh,” that has Samira grinning. Face to face with her, her trimmed bush, wet with her wetness and folds glistening in the part of her hairs, she licks her lips. She smells clean down here, too. The eucalyptus and mint of her body wash mixes with the heady musk of her cunt, and Samira feels dizzy off it.
She’s tentative at first, kitten licks at the skin around her clit, but Trinity all but shoves her pussy into her mouth. Samira snorts, and above her Trinity huffs out a laugh, and it’s nice, silly for a second. It makes Samira feel good, making her feel good. So good, in fact, that she’s soaked between her own legs. She’s ruined her extra pair of underwear, might’ve ruined Trinity’s shorts, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll get hers after.
Getting into it, she suckles, licks, swirls her tongue over her clit and Trinity moans openly. She can feel her thighs tensing, feel her readying her body, and she pulls back. The groan she gets is tired, desperate, and she straightens her shoulders, cracks the kink in her back.
Her fingers reenter her easily, curling up again, faster this time, thrusting and stroking all at once, a rocking motion that pulls her body closer and further away, jiggling her tits, making Samira salivate. Her tongue goes back to her clit and Trinity cries out, wanting, close, and she’s waited long enough.
She doubles her efforts, opens her jaw, covers her mound with her mouth where her fingers aren’t fucking into her and lathes her tongue over and over and over that tiny sensitive nub. Trinity rolls her hips into her and she stays there, fucking her with her mouth and fingers, and her thighs tense, stomach stiff, and she cums with a noise that sounds like she ripped it out of her chest.
Samira doesn’t stop, keeps licking and fingering and when Trinity’s done, when the overstimulation kicks in, she takes it valiantly, putting both her hands in Samira’s hair but not pulling, not pushing, just gripping for a handhold as she cries out, pitch high and sharp. Her thighs shake and she groans low, cunt jerking in her mouth as she cums again, too soon to be comfortable, and then she does start pushing.
She pulls back, slipping her fingers from her cunt and giving one last lick before stopping. She lets her breathe, petting at her hip with her dry hand, a soothing motion.
“You did so good,” Samira says, and Trinity grins, heaving in air.
“I did so good? That was crazy, SlowMo. That’s the hardest I’ve cum in a long time.”
She slaps around her nightstand for a second before handing her a tissue. She wipes off her pruning fingers and tosses it in the trash. She pulls her hair back out with her free hand, letting her curls fall to her shoulders.
“Lemme do you,” she says, sitting up on her hands. “Come on, I bet you’re dying.”
“You’ve got a strap, I assume?”
“The lady assumes correct,” she sleazes, and Samira rolls her eyes. “One moment for my guest.”
She reaches back to her nightstand, opens up the drawer, and inside sits a collection of dildos, a stray vibrator thrown in here and there as well. Samira, stepping off the bed to look, pulls one out, a nice purple dual density, not too long but thicker than she’s used to, and holds it out for inspection.
“Oohh, the Lady Killer,” she says with approval. “That’s a good one.”
“The Lady Killer?” Samira says incredulously. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“They’ve all got names. That fleshy one is Big Joe, the other fleshy one is Little Joe, yeah I know it’s bigger. The pink one is Pink in the Night, and that small black one is Rosebud’s Demise.”
“Jesus,” Samira breathes out.
“Lady Killer’s my favorite though. She’s a real pleaser.”
“Alright, strap up.”
“A-yes ma’am,” she says saucily. She grabs the strap from the drawer, a plain black number that she slides on before tightening the straps. She sits up, reaching for Samira’s shorts but she bats her hand away.
“Just lay back.” She pushes at Trinity gently and she goes back down willingly, quizzical look in her eyes. “Here, put Lady Killer on.”
She snorts after she says it, incapable of keeping a straight face saying that name, or any of the names she just listed. Trinity laughs with her but clearly tries not to.
“I have a very serious naming convention,” she says between giggles. “Shame on you for making fun of me.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Sure you didn’t.” She slides it through the ring, twisting and adjusting until it sits standing ready. Her hands go out in a “check this out” position, wiggling her hips unseriously.
Samira pulls her shorts down slowly, stepping one foot and the next out of them. Her underwear go with it, and she slides them back with her foot. Trinity looks at her, ready to pounce, and Samira climbs onto the bed, one knee and then the other.
“Just stay there,” she says, a husk in her tone, and Trinity obliges. It’s hard to look sexy climbing on top of someone’s hips, but Samira gives it her best shot. She hoists herself up over the Lady Killer, angles it with her hand, and sinks down onto it.
It’s a stretch, more than she can do all at once, and she sucks in a breath, holds herself up with just the head inside of her. Trinity watches her, eyes wide, hands up like she could do anything, but Samira smiles, shakes her head, brings a hand down and touches herself.
It helps, like always, to loosen her muscles. She sinks down further, halfway in now, and rolls her hips, taking more and more until she bottoms out, hissing out a breath at the fullness she feels. Trinity’s fingers brush her hips, palms curling over the soft skin there, and her lips curl up at her, eyes half shut and gentle as they look at the woman about to fuck her.
“Don’t move,” she says quietly, and she gets a hurried nod in response. She pushes up, muscles unused to the action after so long a break from it, and sinks back down, angling herself to hit— there, and she closes her eyes, moaning openly.
Rubbing at her clit, she starts fucking herself on Trinity’s strap, opening her eyes every so often to get a good look at her. She looks star struck, watching her move, drinking in the bounce of her small, perky chest, the hair going down her navel and ending thick around her folds.
“Mnn, Trinity?”
“Yes?” she responds almost instantly, eager to please.
“You can fuck me now.”
She nods, tightening the grip on her hips, moving her own to meet her on the downstroke. “Yes,” Samira breathes out. “Just like that.”
They start a rhythm, not too fast, a steady in and out of the dick inside her. Trinity clearly has practice at this, and it may have been a while but riding someone comes back to her just like riding a bike. It’s not too dissimilar either, a balancing act atop something.
She doesn’t stifle herself, lets herself feel every stroke, every zing of pleasure that zips up her body and radiates from her core. She moans, maybe wantonly, but she learned a long time ago that people that don’t appreciate her noises don’t matter, and Trinity is fucking her like every groan, every gasp that escapes her lips is something to be treasured.
“Harder,” she demands, and Trinity delivers, thrusting into her with a vigor she should’ve expected but didn’t. It punches noise out of her, and she grinds down hard, losing the rhythm. “Don’t stop!”
She fucks her with everything she has and Samira stops trying to keep herself going. It’s enough that she stays upright. She rolls her hips but doesn’t bounce, lets Trinity do all that work she so clearly wants to do, and digs her finger into her clit.
Almost, almost, and then Trinity shifts just slightly and the angle makes stars explode in her brain and she cums with a guttural cry. Trinity keeps fucking her and she keens, high pitched and needy, and she flips them, deftly, expertly, flips them over so Trinity fucks her from the top now.
It’s too much, and she shakes her head no but pulls her down into a sloppy, open mouthed kiss. She hopes Trinity can taste herself, tongue loose and licking between her teeth and over her own.
She fucks her until the whining noise in her throat breaks and she slows, one, two more pumps before flopping on top of her, clearly spent as well. Samira sucks air in, bringing her hand up to pet at Trinity’s hair. She lifts her head up from where it was resting on her breastbone and grins, a cheesy, stomach clenching thing that Samira smiles back at just from the sheer glow in Trinity’s face.
“Do you feel… killed?”
“Huh?” Samira says, before remembering the name of the dildo inside of her. She groans, rubbing at her eyes, and Trinity pulls out. She grimaces at the feeling, and slumps back into the bed spread. “Ugh, I’m all sticky now.”
“Could shower again?”
“What about you?”
“Could shower together? I know my shower is a little small, but we’d fit. Trust.”
Samira doesn’t even want to begin thinking of the context behind that ‘trust,’ and she’s already given up on modesty. She’s lying naked in Trinity’s bed, watching her slide the strap down her thighs. It’s been a long time since she’s showered with someone, pressed warm body under warm spray against another wet body. But she doesn’t want to go to bed sticky, doesn’t want Trinity to feel weird for showering again, alone.
“Yeah, alright.”
“Really?” She perks up like a dog, like Samira is offering to take her on a walk down the road and stop for a pup cup. It’s unbearably endearing.
“Yeah, lead the way.”
In the shower, pressed close to her, rubbing the body wash down her front and cupping her breasts in her hands from behind, Samira breathes in her scent in again. Lemony, minty, sharp and clean, sweat behind it all. She kisses at the nape of her neck, a gentle thing, maybe too gentle, but Trinity leans into her touches regardless. And when it’s her turn to be soaped up and felt all over, she allows herself the pleasure of relaxing.
It’s been a long time since she’s truly relaxed.
“Thanks for letting me stay over,” she says quietly into the spray of water.
“Literally anytime, dude. That was, uh, crazy.”
“Too much?”
“No, crazy in a good way.”
Samira smiles. Trinity slides past to her front to kiss her, tonguing into her mouth and holding her waist. Her hair is going to be a dry frizzy mess, and Trinity’s practically waterboarding herself to get this kiss in, but oh, it’s nice, and it’s hers.
She kisses back and lets the spray take her under.