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lobelia321Here is my girlfic in two parts!
It's also available in one part at my niche .
Title: At About Six O'Clock
Part: 1/2
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Website: http://www.geocities.com/lobelia321
Pairing: Liv Tyler / Miranda Otto
Rating: NC-17
Category: Girlslash. PWP, fairly much.
Spoilers: *The Return of the King*
Warnings/Content: f/f. RPS.
Archive: Beyond the Fellowship. My niche. Anyone else, please just ask.
Feedback: Yes, please, I would love feedback!
Disclaimers: This is a work of amateur fiction. I do not know these people. I am not making money. The events described in this story did not happen.
Summary: Liv feels hot. Miranda has ice cubes.
Author's Notes: Finally: my very first girlslash. Thanks to Demelza for daring to go there and inspiring me to finish this story. And thanks to mcee for starting the LotR girlslash list. Hugs and kisses, once again, to lovely beta Gabby Hope.
---------
At about six o'clock in the evening, Liv caught herself staring at Miranda Otto across a corpse-strewn battlefield.
It was the first day of shooting the Battle of Cormallen. Liv was on her horse, flanked by Elrond's sons, clutching the reins in one hand and the banner of Gondor in the other. There were orc bodies everywhere, some live actors, most dummies from props. To her left, the wind machine was working overtime, making her hair stream out and the banner flap violently. She strained her ears to listen to the instructions of the battle choreographers at the same time as trying not to back her horse into the flotilla of lights at her rear.
Then she noticed Miranda, yards away, astride her horse on the other side of the battlefield. That is, at first she didn't even recognise her as Miranda. She just caught her breath, and a thought flashed through her mind: 'Who is that gorgeous Dernhelm?'
It took Liv almost a full minute to realise that the nubile youth with the strong cheekbones and the lithe thighs, in flashing helmet and armour, was, in fact, none other than Miranda. Eowyn transformed into Dernhelm, Miranda transformed into some creature from another dimension.
So she stared. Stared until one of the Elrond boys slapped her horse on its neck and shouted, "Hello?? Earth to Liv!"
"Ah, yeah, what?" she stammered, coming out of her daze.
"Gotta go!"
They were off. Galloping across the plain, hooves thundering, cameras on cranes wheeling overhead, loudspeaker instructions being yelled over the general noise, and all of a sudden there was that vision of Dernhelm again.
"Cut, cut!"
They all stopped, horses in a sweat, Liv in a sweat, Liv's eyes trained on that youth on that horse in that helmet. Intellectually, of course, she knew quite well that it was just Miranda in a costume but emotionally, and physically -- well, that was something else again.
She was also sure that she wouldn't have been nearly as transfixed if it had been a male actor.
They staggered back to make-up at some ungodly hour of the night. Liv leant back in her chair, half lowered her eyelids and watched Miranda as she strode in. Yes, strode, despite hours and hours of backbreaking riding and re-takes and backbreaking riding and more re-takes and so on until Liv's every muscle ached. But Miranda was striding as she pulled the helmet off her head, tugged at the net that kept her hair in place and shook out her blonde mane.
Liv blinked.
Miranda, still in her Dernhelm costume, but with hair tumbling down her back. What a sight.
Well, it wasn't such an incredible sight, really. In fact, she'd seen actors emerging from underneath wigs and helmets and whatnot on a regular basis now for the past eight months. She just hadn't seen Miranda. It was just the... unfamiliarity.
Miranda plonked herself down in one of the chairs and offered up her face to the make-up person. Half-way through some procedure, she spied Liv, and waved and smiled.
"Hi," croaked Liv. Why and wherefore the croaking? A mystery.
"I know it's late and all," said Miranda. "But wanna go for a quick nightcap? Just to wind down?"
"O... kay," said Liv.
It turned out that it was too late for this particular New Zealand location. Nothing was open. There was only one bar, and that was crammed to the gills with *Rings* crew and cast.
"Not sure I can cope with more of that tonight," said Miranda, peering through the frosted glass of the bar door. "Shall we go to my hotel room? I've got a bottle of vodka." She lowered her voice, winking at Liv. "It's Finnish. It's really good stuff."
Liv swallowed. "F... ine," she said.
That's how Liv ended up sitting on Miranda's couch, drinking vodka on the rocks out of a hotel tumbler and feeling pleasantly out of it and bone tired at the same time. Well, pretty soon she wasn't sitting up any longer but slouching, letting one arm dangle off the side and cradling the tumbler on her bosom. Miranda had not made an empty promise: the vodka tasted like liquid rye and flowed down Liv's throat in deliciously giddy gulps. It seemed almost to lack materiality, to consist simply of alcoholic ether that floated straight from the lip of the tumbler to Liv's brain. It made Liv feel light-headed and heavy at the same time, and it made Miranda appear like something otherworldly, even though Miranda didn't look anything like Dernhelm anymore. She looked quite unwarrior-like, soft and sweet and womanly, curled up in the armchair as if her body and the upholstery were made of the same mould.
"You know," said Liv, voice thick with barley and rye, "you looked really good as Dernhelm tonight."
"You think so?" said Miranda, parting her lips into a sweet pink smile.
"Yeah. You looked just like a guy. In fact, you looked much better than the real guys there." Liv blinked, then went on, "In fact, you still do."
What was she saying? What was she feeling?
"Do I?" said Miranda, an intent look on her face. "Thanks. How sweet of you."
Liv dropped her eyes under that intent gaze. She swallowed, ran her finger along the rim of her glass, took another sip. Thought of another topic of conversation. Anything. Anything but the topic of Miranda's looks.
"You know what's odd about this shoot?" she finally said, sounding breathless even to herself and not sure why that should be so. "There's no groping and pawing. Do you find that?"
The question had come out much too shrilly, and Liv's head had snapped up much too abruptly, her eyes meeting Miranda's. And why, of all topics, had Liv hit on this particular one? Why must they now talk about groping and pawing?
Miranda, though, seemed unperturbed. She continued to sit draped over the armchair, and laughed. "I know exactly what you mean," she replied. "And it's true, it's a bit different from other shoots."
"Yeah, normally there's at least one guy who wants to pinch your bum about twenty times a day," said Liv, glad to be channelling their talk into safer waters, girly-matey waters. "And there's at least one other guy, from lighting or special effects, who drools over you from a distance."
"Yeah," interrupted Miranda. "And there's always that one guy, usually with a gold chain around his neck, who keeps calling you 'darling' and making jokes about fish!"
Yes, this was safe enough. Just a couple of gals letting off steam about guys. Liv laughed, partly with relief, partly from tension. She almost fell onto the floor, laughing and writhing on that couch. Shit, this was potent alcohol. How much of it had she drunk?
"But here, you know," Liv said, pulling herself back against the armrest and trying to remember what the topic had been, "nobody really cares about us lot. Those boys are all too busy with each other." She leaned towards Miranda and lowered her voice. "I have to confess that I'm almost starting to miss it."
"Yes," said Miranda, and a strand of her hair fell across her face as she, too, bent forwards. She had that intent look on her face again. "You really wish for that dickhead who keeps pinching your bum, eh?"
That should be a funny line. That should make Liv giggle. But it didn't. Miranda's low voice and Miranda's face, her teeth gleaming moistly between her cherry-like lips -- all of this stifled the giggle in Liv's throat.
"Well," said Liv, catching her breath. "Not quite him, perhaps. Not the bumhead. I mean, the dickhead. I just mean-- I do sometimes feel a bit like a sexless ghost around these guys. That's all."
Their heads were quite close, Miranda's light hair falling against Liv's dark hair.
"You're not a sexless ghost," whispered Miranda. She lifted her hand and tucked a strand of Liv's hair behind her ear. "You're very sexy."
"Really?" mumbled Liv. And was it the alcohol? Or was it the throaty sound of Miranda's voice? Or the smell of lilac emanating from Miranda's neck? Whatever it was, Liv found herself bending forwards, very close to Miranda's face, and closer still, Miranda's eyes now swimming in a blur, and even closer, so close they were almost touching. Liv could sense the heat of Miranda's cheeks against her own skin.
They seemed to hover like that for minutes yet it couldn't have been a few seconds at most. Then Miranda moved away, and Liv, with a sudden desperate urge she hadn't even realised she felt, lunged forwards and pressed her lips against Miranda's retreating mouth.
She missed, of course. Her lips didn't land on Miranda's mouth at all but somewhere on her cheek, awkwardly bumping against Miranda's nose. But it didn't matter because Miranda moved her face and then their lips really did join, and Liv almost dropped her glass.
Miranda's lips were impossibly soft, soft and moist with vodka, and then she parted them and Liv tasted her tongue, lazily moving around against her own. Suddenly, the temperature in the room seemed to rise by several degrees. Liv's skin prickled, sweat broke out behind her ears and along her parting, and although Miranda's mouth was wet, dripping with moisture like the inside of a tropical cave, Liv's throat felt dry and her tongue felt crisp. She broke away from Miranda, head reeling, fingers still curled around her glass, and didn't know whether she should have drunk less vodka or whether she needed more, much more. More of something.
She lifted the glass to her mouth, hastily gulping down a mouthful, but the alcohol, too, tasted dry. It barely dampened the insides of her cheeks.
"Would you like," Miranda asked, vowels rolling over Liv's skin like open-mouthed kisses, "some more ice? You look a bit hot."
"I am," Liv managed to gasp, head still spinning, unsure whether from vodka or from something else. "Actually, I am a bit. Hot, I mean." God, how many senses did that word have? "So, yes, some more ice. Please." She lifted her glass. It shook in her hand. It was true, the ice had all melted into what little was left of the Finlandia. The whole thing was just one golden puddle. It must have been because she was clutching the glass so hard, and her palm was sweating like margarine.
"Alright," Miranda said, "here's the ice."
Liv dropped the glass. Vodka spread across her sandalled feet. Glass splinters tickled her toes. But all that didn't matter now. Her eyes were rivetted on Miranda. Who was slowly, slowly lifting her left leg onto the armchair. Slowly, slowly lifting it so high that her skirt fell off her in soft folds, cascaded down her legs, nestled in a river of chiffon above her belly. *Above* her belly. Liv could see all the way up Miranda's left leg, all the way up the smooth, pale thigh, all the way up to Miranda's impossibly white, impossibly cottony underwear. Liv swallowed. Nothing special about undies, after all. Hell, she was wearing them herself. And at the moment, she was also painfully aware of them, aware of her vaginal lips straining against the fabric, and of the fabric moistening from the inside. Miranda's undies seemed to be moist as well. There was a patch of darker white towards the lower end, where the pants curved away, and up above, Liv could just make out the fibrous curls jutting into the material, like a hump of moss.
God. She couldn't breathe.
"Here's the ice," said Miranda. Liv blinked. Miranda reached to the floor next to her, dipped her index finger and thumb into her vodka glass, extracted a cube. Miraculously, those cubes didn't seem to have melted. Must be a different temperature over in that part of the room. Which was not that far away, actually. Not that far away, at all. Pretty fucking close, in fact; so close that Liv could smell the vodka on Miranda's fingers and the sweat between her legs.
Miranda opened her mouth and, without taking her blue, blue eyes off Liv, eyes the blue of ice crystal, antarctic eyes, ice bear eyes, she inserted the ice cube into her mouth.
What? Was Liv supposed to retrieve it from there? She licked her lips and almost bent forwards, astounded by her own eagerness, but no. Miranda took the cube back out again. Just slightly raised her eyebrows, flashed a brief smile, and then moved the ice cube down her front, leaving a trail of watery droplets along her neck, along the low-cut V of her T-shirt, down down over the top, through the skirt's folds and coming to rest on that impossibly cottony mound.
Miranda tucked her fingers, still holding the ice cube, into the elastic of the undies. Her fingers disappeared inside, her whole hand disappeared, just a knuckly mound under the fabric. She stretched herself backwards, lifted her buttocks slightly, and then withdrew her hand.
The ice cube was gone.
"Come and get it," Miranda said.
Liv thought she might faint. The temperature seemed to have risen yet again in the last few seconds. The air was as thick as sauce. Liv could taste it on her tongue; it tasted like nothing she'd ever tasted before. It tasted like... well, she knew what it tasted like, and it made her clutch at her knee.
Miranda continued to sit there, not moving, left leg akimbo, slight smile curving her lips. Her maddeningly pink lips.
Liv licked her own lips again. She did feel thirsty, and she did feel hot, nauseatingly hot, and she did need ice. Desperately.
So she fell off the couch, fell onto her knees, crunching glass but not caring, and shuffled across to Miranda on her knees. She kept her eyes fixed on that triangle of white between Miranda's legs where now the earlier moist patch was joined by another one, a larger one spreading out from underneath. Liv reached out a finger and touched the fabric. One moist patch was hot to the touch and the other was freezing cold, and Liv thought once again that she might pass out. Except she didn't.
Instead, she felt her clit swell against her own undies, and everything down there just seemed to be one big wet mess by now, anyway. She held her breath and slowly, desperately, worked one finger into Miranda's undies from below, not from the elastic hugging Miranda's hips but from the edge of the undies between Miranda's thighs.
Miranda let out a tiny gasp. Liv's eyes fell shut for one instant but then opened again as she concentrated on finding that ice cube, wriggling her finger further down, further in, following the path of the chilly liquid oozing out of Miranda.
Liv felt parched now. The back of her throat was dry, her tongue felt like a felt plate in her mouth, her teeth fuzzy and hard. It seemed like an age that she had had anything moist between her lips and she needed something moist, something cool. She needed that ice cube.
So Liv bent her head, hair getting in the way at first but she brushed it aside impatiently; she lifted the fabric of Miranda's undies, she pushed the fabric aside, scraping it across Miranda's lips and skin; she could feel the heat rising from Miranda, but also the arctic crispness of the ice; she felt lost in the rich scent of Miranda, and then she dipped her tongue down, not quite knowing what she was doing or where she was heading, but trying to find the approximate place where the ice cube must be.
And yes, mixed in with Miranda's hot fluids was a sparkling, crystal clear trace of frost. Liv followed that trace, eyes closed now, blindly moving her tongue into every cleft, every crevice, hunting for that cube. She was so lost in Miranda that she hardly registered the moans coming from above her or the fingers weaving their way through her hair.
This was like nothing Liv had experienced before. Well, she had, of course, sort of, in herself, but not close-up like this, not with her nose buried in a woman's pubic thatch and her tongue up someone else's cunt. It was nothing like the straightforward, no-nonsense, what-you-see-is-what-you-get sex of a guy. Nothing like the dry, warm *cockness* of men. It was like a valley full of ups and downs and ins and outs and folds and hills. Like a fantastically, preposterously obscene valley. A valley of flesh and fluids and smells and pulsing blood, completely surprising, completely unlike the smiling and pretty Miranda above. This wasn't pretty, this was just a hot chaos of sensation.
Liv was now using her hands to help in her quest. With one set of fingers, she stretched the undies out of the way; with the other set of fingers, she spread Miranda apart, she opened Miranda up, and she delved in with her tongue, as deep as she could go, which still wasn't deep enough because the ice cube kept eluding her. The cold water kept teasing her tongue but the lumpy cubeness of it never reached her, and perhaps, at any rate, it had already melted in the volcanic heat of Miranda's insides.
No matter. Though not cold, Miranda was moist, and Liv lapped her up, lapped her into that parched throat of hers. Lapped around, lapped down, lapped up, and found Miranda's sweet little lappable bud of a clit. Or not so little. Swollen with desire, actually. Answering the swell of Liv's own clit. And remembering her own clit and thinking of what she would like to have done to it right now, Liv sank onto Miranda's clit with a sigh.
So, there she was, on her knees, tongue on Miranda, fingers in Miranda, Miranda oozing all over her hands and mouth, Miranda's leg hooked around the back of her neck, thigh muscles working beneath Liv's face, and then spasms, then clenchings, then archings and loud, loud moans, loud enough now to penetrate even Liv's confused senses. But she kept going, she kept lapping, she kept her fingers inside, muscles contracting softly around them, like nubbed squid legs, and tasting similarly, too, and soon Miranda moaned again, soon she stopped moaning and just gasped, wordlessly, soundlessly, and Liv was quite, quite sure that the ice must have all melted away completely by now.
TBC
It's also available in one part at my niche .
Title: At About Six O'Clock
Part: 1/2
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Website: http://www.geocities.com/lobelia321
Pairing: Liv Tyler / Miranda Otto
Rating: NC-17
Category: Girlslash. PWP, fairly much.
Spoilers: *The Return of the King*
Warnings/Content: f/f. RPS.
Archive: Beyond the Fellowship. My niche. Anyone else, please just ask.
Feedback: Yes, please, I would love feedback!
Disclaimers: This is a work of amateur fiction. I do not know these people. I am not making money. The events described in this story did not happen.
Summary: Liv feels hot. Miranda has ice cubes.
Author's Notes: Finally: my very first girlslash. Thanks to Demelza for daring to go there and inspiring me to finish this story. And thanks to mcee for starting the LotR girlslash list. Hugs and kisses, once again, to lovely beta Gabby Hope.
---------
At about six o'clock in the evening, Liv caught herself staring at Miranda Otto across a corpse-strewn battlefield.
It was the first day of shooting the Battle of Cormallen. Liv was on her horse, flanked by Elrond's sons, clutching the reins in one hand and the banner of Gondor in the other. There were orc bodies everywhere, some live actors, most dummies from props. To her left, the wind machine was working overtime, making her hair stream out and the banner flap violently. She strained her ears to listen to the instructions of the battle choreographers at the same time as trying not to back her horse into the flotilla of lights at her rear.
Then she noticed Miranda, yards away, astride her horse on the other side of the battlefield. That is, at first she didn't even recognise her as Miranda. She just caught her breath, and a thought flashed through her mind: 'Who is that gorgeous Dernhelm?'
It took Liv almost a full minute to realise that the nubile youth with the strong cheekbones and the lithe thighs, in flashing helmet and armour, was, in fact, none other than Miranda. Eowyn transformed into Dernhelm, Miranda transformed into some creature from another dimension.
So she stared. Stared until one of the Elrond boys slapped her horse on its neck and shouted, "Hello?? Earth to Liv!"
"Ah, yeah, what?" she stammered, coming out of her daze.
"Gotta go!"
They were off. Galloping across the plain, hooves thundering, cameras on cranes wheeling overhead, loudspeaker instructions being yelled over the general noise, and all of a sudden there was that vision of Dernhelm again.
"Cut, cut!"
They all stopped, horses in a sweat, Liv in a sweat, Liv's eyes trained on that youth on that horse in that helmet. Intellectually, of course, she knew quite well that it was just Miranda in a costume but emotionally, and physically -- well, that was something else again.
She was also sure that she wouldn't have been nearly as transfixed if it had been a male actor.
They staggered back to make-up at some ungodly hour of the night. Liv leant back in her chair, half lowered her eyelids and watched Miranda as she strode in. Yes, strode, despite hours and hours of backbreaking riding and re-takes and backbreaking riding and more re-takes and so on until Liv's every muscle ached. But Miranda was striding as she pulled the helmet off her head, tugged at the net that kept her hair in place and shook out her blonde mane.
Liv blinked.
Miranda, still in her Dernhelm costume, but with hair tumbling down her back. What a sight.
Well, it wasn't such an incredible sight, really. In fact, she'd seen actors emerging from underneath wigs and helmets and whatnot on a regular basis now for the past eight months. She just hadn't seen Miranda. It was just the... unfamiliarity.
Miranda plonked herself down in one of the chairs and offered up her face to the make-up person. Half-way through some procedure, she spied Liv, and waved and smiled.
"Hi," croaked Liv. Why and wherefore the croaking? A mystery.
"I know it's late and all," said Miranda. "But wanna go for a quick nightcap? Just to wind down?"
"O... kay," said Liv.
It turned out that it was too late for this particular New Zealand location. Nothing was open. There was only one bar, and that was crammed to the gills with *Rings* crew and cast.
"Not sure I can cope with more of that tonight," said Miranda, peering through the frosted glass of the bar door. "Shall we go to my hotel room? I've got a bottle of vodka." She lowered her voice, winking at Liv. "It's Finnish. It's really good stuff."
Liv swallowed. "F... ine," she said.
That's how Liv ended up sitting on Miranda's couch, drinking vodka on the rocks out of a hotel tumbler and feeling pleasantly out of it and bone tired at the same time. Well, pretty soon she wasn't sitting up any longer but slouching, letting one arm dangle off the side and cradling the tumbler on her bosom. Miranda had not made an empty promise: the vodka tasted like liquid rye and flowed down Liv's throat in deliciously giddy gulps. It seemed almost to lack materiality, to consist simply of alcoholic ether that floated straight from the lip of the tumbler to Liv's brain. It made Liv feel light-headed and heavy at the same time, and it made Miranda appear like something otherworldly, even though Miranda didn't look anything like Dernhelm anymore. She looked quite unwarrior-like, soft and sweet and womanly, curled up in the armchair as if her body and the upholstery were made of the same mould.
"You know," said Liv, voice thick with barley and rye, "you looked really good as Dernhelm tonight."
"You think so?" said Miranda, parting her lips into a sweet pink smile.
"Yeah. You looked just like a guy. In fact, you looked much better than the real guys there." Liv blinked, then went on, "In fact, you still do."
What was she saying? What was she feeling?
"Do I?" said Miranda, an intent look on her face. "Thanks. How sweet of you."
Liv dropped her eyes under that intent gaze. She swallowed, ran her finger along the rim of her glass, took another sip. Thought of another topic of conversation. Anything. Anything but the topic of Miranda's looks.
"You know what's odd about this shoot?" she finally said, sounding breathless even to herself and not sure why that should be so. "There's no groping and pawing. Do you find that?"
The question had come out much too shrilly, and Liv's head had snapped up much too abruptly, her eyes meeting Miranda's. And why, of all topics, had Liv hit on this particular one? Why must they now talk about groping and pawing?
Miranda, though, seemed unperturbed. She continued to sit draped over the armchair, and laughed. "I know exactly what you mean," she replied. "And it's true, it's a bit different from other shoots."
"Yeah, normally there's at least one guy who wants to pinch your bum about twenty times a day," said Liv, glad to be channelling their talk into safer waters, girly-matey waters. "And there's at least one other guy, from lighting or special effects, who drools over you from a distance."
"Yeah," interrupted Miranda. "And there's always that one guy, usually with a gold chain around his neck, who keeps calling you 'darling' and making jokes about fish!"
Yes, this was safe enough. Just a couple of gals letting off steam about guys. Liv laughed, partly with relief, partly from tension. She almost fell onto the floor, laughing and writhing on that couch. Shit, this was potent alcohol. How much of it had she drunk?
"But here, you know," Liv said, pulling herself back against the armrest and trying to remember what the topic had been, "nobody really cares about us lot. Those boys are all too busy with each other." She leaned towards Miranda and lowered her voice. "I have to confess that I'm almost starting to miss it."
"Yes," said Miranda, and a strand of her hair fell across her face as she, too, bent forwards. She had that intent look on her face again. "You really wish for that dickhead who keeps pinching your bum, eh?"
That should be a funny line. That should make Liv giggle. But it didn't. Miranda's low voice and Miranda's face, her teeth gleaming moistly between her cherry-like lips -- all of this stifled the giggle in Liv's throat.
"Well," said Liv, catching her breath. "Not quite him, perhaps. Not the bumhead. I mean, the dickhead. I just mean-- I do sometimes feel a bit like a sexless ghost around these guys. That's all."
Their heads were quite close, Miranda's light hair falling against Liv's dark hair.
"You're not a sexless ghost," whispered Miranda. She lifted her hand and tucked a strand of Liv's hair behind her ear. "You're very sexy."
"Really?" mumbled Liv. And was it the alcohol? Or was it the throaty sound of Miranda's voice? Or the smell of lilac emanating from Miranda's neck? Whatever it was, Liv found herself bending forwards, very close to Miranda's face, and closer still, Miranda's eyes now swimming in a blur, and even closer, so close they were almost touching. Liv could sense the heat of Miranda's cheeks against her own skin.
They seemed to hover like that for minutes yet it couldn't have been a few seconds at most. Then Miranda moved away, and Liv, with a sudden desperate urge she hadn't even realised she felt, lunged forwards and pressed her lips against Miranda's retreating mouth.
She missed, of course. Her lips didn't land on Miranda's mouth at all but somewhere on her cheek, awkwardly bumping against Miranda's nose. But it didn't matter because Miranda moved her face and then their lips really did join, and Liv almost dropped her glass.
Miranda's lips were impossibly soft, soft and moist with vodka, and then she parted them and Liv tasted her tongue, lazily moving around against her own. Suddenly, the temperature in the room seemed to rise by several degrees. Liv's skin prickled, sweat broke out behind her ears and along her parting, and although Miranda's mouth was wet, dripping with moisture like the inside of a tropical cave, Liv's throat felt dry and her tongue felt crisp. She broke away from Miranda, head reeling, fingers still curled around her glass, and didn't know whether she should have drunk less vodka or whether she needed more, much more. More of something.
She lifted the glass to her mouth, hastily gulping down a mouthful, but the alcohol, too, tasted dry. It barely dampened the insides of her cheeks.
"Would you like," Miranda asked, vowels rolling over Liv's skin like open-mouthed kisses, "some more ice? You look a bit hot."
"I am," Liv managed to gasp, head still spinning, unsure whether from vodka or from something else. "Actually, I am a bit. Hot, I mean." God, how many senses did that word have? "So, yes, some more ice. Please." She lifted her glass. It shook in her hand. It was true, the ice had all melted into what little was left of the Finlandia. The whole thing was just one golden puddle. It must have been because she was clutching the glass so hard, and her palm was sweating like margarine.
"Alright," Miranda said, "here's the ice."
Liv dropped the glass. Vodka spread across her sandalled feet. Glass splinters tickled her toes. But all that didn't matter now. Her eyes were rivetted on Miranda. Who was slowly, slowly lifting her left leg onto the armchair. Slowly, slowly lifting it so high that her skirt fell off her in soft folds, cascaded down her legs, nestled in a river of chiffon above her belly. *Above* her belly. Liv could see all the way up Miranda's left leg, all the way up the smooth, pale thigh, all the way up to Miranda's impossibly white, impossibly cottony underwear. Liv swallowed. Nothing special about undies, after all. Hell, she was wearing them herself. And at the moment, she was also painfully aware of them, aware of her vaginal lips straining against the fabric, and of the fabric moistening from the inside. Miranda's undies seemed to be moist as well. There was a patch of darker white towards the lower end, where the pants curved away, and up above, Liv could just make out the fibrous curls jutting into the material, like a hump of moss.
God. She couldn't breathe.
"Here's the ice," said Miranda. Liv blinked. Miranda reached to the floor next to her, dipped her index finger and thumb into her vodka glass, extracted a cube. Miraculously, those cubes didn't seem to have melted. Must be a different temperature over in that part of the room. Which was not that far away, actually. Not that far away, at all. Pretty fucking close, in fact; so close that Liv could smell the vodka on Miranda's fingers and the sweat between her legs.
Miranda opened her mouth and, without taking her blue, blue eyes off Liv, eyes the blue of ice crystal, antarctic eyes, ice bear eyes, she inserted the ice cube into her mouth.
What? Was Liv supposed to retrieve it from there? She licked her lips and almost bent forwards, astounded by her own eagerness, but no. Miranda took the cube back out again. Just slightly raised her eyebrows, flashed a brief smile, and then moved the ice cube down her front, leaving a trail of watery droplets along her neck, along the low-cut V of her T-shirt, down down over the top, through the skirt's folds and coming to rest on that impossibly cottony mound.
Miranda tucked her fingers, still holding the ice cube, into the elastic of the undies. Her fingers disappeared inside, her whole hand disappeared, just a knuckly mound under the fabric. She stretched herself backwards, lifted her buttocks slightly, and then withdrew her hand.
The ice cube was gone.
"Come and get it," Miranda said.
Liv thought she might faint. The temperature seemed to have risen yet again in the last few seconds. The air was as thick as sauce. Liv could taste it on her tongue; it tasted like nothing she'd ever tasted before. It tasted like... well, she knew what it tasted like, and it made her clutch at her knee.
Miranda continued to sit there, not moving, left leg akimbo, slight smile curving her lips. Her maddeningly pink lips.
Liv licked her own lips again. She did feel thirsty, and she did feel hot, nauseatingly hot, and she did need ice. Desperately.
So she fell off the couch, fell onto her knees, crunching glass but not caring, and shuffled across to Miranda on her knees. She kept her eyes fixed on that triangle of white between Miranda's legs where now the earlier moist patch was joined by another one, a larger one spreading out from underneath. Liv reached out a finger and touched the fabric. One moist patch was hot to the touch and the other was freezing cold, and Liv thought once again that she might pass out. Except she didn't.
Instead, she felt her clit swell against her own undies, and everything down there just seemed to be one big wet mess by now, anyway. She held her breath and slowly, desperately, worked one finger into Miranda's undies from below, not from the elastic hugging Miranda's hips but from the edge of the undies between Miranda's thighs.
Miranda let out a tiny gasp. Liv's eyes fell shut for one instant but then opened again as she concentrated on finding that ice cube, wriggling her finger further down, further in, following the path of the chilly liquid oozing out of Miranda.
Liv felt parched now. The back of her throat was dry, her tongue felt like a felt plate in her mouth, her teeth fuzzy and hard. It seemed like an age that she had had anything moist between her lips and she needed something moist, something cool. She needed that ice cube.
So Liv bent her head, hair getting in the way at first but she brushed it aside impatiently; she lifted the fabric of Miranda's undies, she pushed the fabric aside, scraping it across Miranda's lips and skin; she could feel the heat rising from Miranda, but also the arctic crispness of the ice; she felt lost in the rich scent of Miranda, and then she dipped her tongue down, not quite knowing what she was doing or where she was heading, but trying to find the approximate place where the ice cube must be.
And yes, mixed in with Miranda's hot fluids was a sparkling, crystal clear trace of frost. Liv followed that trace, eyes closed now, blindly moving her tongue into every cleft, every crevice, hunting for that cube. She was so lost in Miranda that she hardly registered the moans coming from above her or the fingers weaving their way through her hair.
This was like nothing Liv had experienced before. Well, she had, of course, sort of, in herself, but not close-up like this, not with her nose buried in a woman's pubic thatch and her tongue up someone else's cunt. It was nothing like the straightforward, no-nonsense, what-you-see-is-what-you-get sex of a guy. Nothing like the dry, warm *cockness* of men. It was like a valley full of ups and downs and ins and outs and folds and hills. Like a fantastically, preposterously obscene valley. A valley of flesh and fluids and smells and pulsing blood, completely surprising, completely unlike the smiling and pretty Miranda above. This wasn't pretty, this was just a hot chaos of sensation.
Liv was now using her hands to help in her quest. With one set of fingers, she stretched the undies out of the way; with the other set of fingers, she spread Miranda apart, she opened Miranda up, and she delved in with her tongue, as deep as she could go, which still wasn't deep enough because the ice cube kept eluding her. The cold water kept teasing her tongue but the lumpy cubeness of it never reached her, and perhaps, at any rate, it had already melted in the volcanic heat of Miranda's insides.
No matter. Though not cold, Miranda was moist, and Liv lapped her up, lapped her into that parched throat of hers. Lapped around, lapped down, lapped up, and found Miranda's sweet little lappable bud of a clit. Or not so little. Swollen with desire, actually. Answering the swell of Liv's own clit. And remembering her own clit and thinking of what she would like to have done to it right now, Liv sank onto Miranda's clit with a sigh.
So, there she was, on her knees, tongue on Miranda, fingers in Miranda, Miranda oozing all over her hands and mouth, Miranda's leg hooked around the back of her neck, thigh muscles working beneath Liv's face, and then spasms, then clenchings, then archings and loud, loud moans, loud enough now to penetrate even Liv's confused senses. But she kept going, she kept lapping, she kept her fingers inside, muscles contracting softly around them, like nubbed squid legs, and tasting similarly, too, and soon Miranda moaned again, soon she stopped moaning and just gasped, wordlessly, soundlessly, and Liv was quite, quite sure that the ice must have all melted away completely by now.
TBC