Getting Up
Erotic fiction

Smiling, Jess got up.

See also...
... by M. Christian
... in the Crave section
... from October 6, 1999

Manx stayed on the futon, lying on her side. It was a "way too damned early in the" kind of morning. You know the kind: sunlight screaming through bare windows, sleep like bricks on eyelids, alarm like all the demons of hell screaming in pain. That kind of morning.

Manx lay like the wounded.

"Come on, baby" Jess said, leaning over her to turn off the alarm. Manx made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a word. "New day dawning," Jess said, standing. Stretching elastically Manx grumbled and rolled over, blinking sticky sleep out of her eyes, this time a word -- definitely -- on her lips.

Jess: Standing next to their bed, barefoot. Bare-assed. She was a small girl -- she had to stand on her tiptoes and reach way above her head to make 6 feet -- but she was a perfect miniature. Without reference, say Manx's 6 feet 3 inches, she could have been any size, look anyone in the eyes.

She was lean and trim, all muscle and smooth, fine skin. Starting where her eyes first landed, Manx saw her feet (as if for the first time): Tiny toes painted navy blue. Baby toes, on dancer's feet. "Finely turned ankles" (and for the first time she knew what that meant) leading up to strong, strong calves that made, when you added in her perfectly formed thighs, beautiful legs. Legs, Manx realized, looking at Jess', were very hard to describe but, damn, you knew a good pair when you saw them and, damn, Jess had mighty fine legs.

Still moving, still stretching, she watched as the perfect moon of her ass turned with her exercises. Jess had a happy and pert ass, a lean and tight one -- almost like a girl's and not like a woman's. Her skin was white but not pale, more like marble than like milk, and her crease was delightfully pale pink, giving her even more of a girl's look. The small of her back was a gentle slope from the parade of her spine to the hard rise of her ass. Her curve was almost a perfect one, like her legs -- hard to pin down, but obvious to the eye, especially to Manx's eyes.

"Do you want to stay in bed all day?"

"Maybe, maybe --" Manx said, stretching out her own body, hearing her bones creak and pop and feeling her face tingle then flex with her first yawn of the day -- then Jess turned and Manx lost whatever she was going to say.

In one quick, supple, fluid move, Jess twisted around, showing Manx her sweet little rounded belly, her puckered innie navel, and the sparse ginger forest between her legs. Sparse, yes, but just enough so that Manx had a delicious view of her plush mons and wide cleft. Then, to add the perfect topping to her sweet, sweet view, Jess turned and touched her toes -- zapping Manx completely, utterly dumb at the sight of that girlie ass parting with her elegant movement to show the fat lips (more pink, lots more pink) of her puss.

Then she straightened, planted her butterfly quick hands on her hips and smiled back over her straight and strong shoulders to fix Manx with an immobilizing smile. Then she turned again, smiling all the while, to give Manx a better view.

Ah, thought Manx, looking at Jess' breasts. Ah: not really a word, more like a feeling, like a kind of quiet had dropped over her mind at the sight of Jess' breasts. She was never one to admit it, almost couldn't admit it even to herself (it was so damned butch) but she was a tit gal. She liked their weight, their heavy silkiness, their beautiful shapes (all of them), and their chewy nipples. Even their name sounded sweet and playful: tits. Jess certainly had playful tits, and god knew Manx liked to play with them.

Jess' breasts weren't huge, they were perfect. They didn't hang heavy, which added yet another item to her girl-drag appearance. They were pointed, like sweeping gestures of skin. Soft as to be almost (but only almost) not there when Manx touched them. When Jess turned sideways, they would peak out three fingers, maybe four, beyond her arms. On her, on her slight body, they looked big, but in Manx's hands they were small and oh-so-just right.

Jess was smiling, very very wide. "Are you getting up, or what?"

But it was Jess' face that did it, really did it: she was an elf, a sprite, a nymph. One look at her and people smiled. She had that power, those planes of cheeks, nose, forehead, and lips (tasty). Her face was capped by a mad torrent of red curls that stopped just short of splashing down on her shoulders. Jess was small and lithe, and her face was perfect for her: a laughing butterfly, a joyful faery. Her eyes smiled, too, with her cheeks and lips, and flashed green mischief. Her body made Manx's body warm, but Jess' face made her hot.

"I'm up, I'm up... or at least parts of me are," Manx said, cupping her mons, feeling the heat, -- pushing down and gently rolling, relishing in the pressure surge that rolled from her cunt.

"Well, I guess there's just no getting you out of bed today, is there?" Jess said, sitting down on the futon next to her and planting a quick, dry kiss on her lips.

"I bet, though, that there's a damned good chance of me getting you back into bed," Manx said, throwing the heavy sheets aside to give Jess a good view of her, and what she was doing. Then she brought both hands down and parted herself -- to give her an even better view.

Jess had gotten up, but seeing Manx she smiled -- then went down.

M. Christian writes non-fiction and edits. His collection of short stories, Dirty Words, is due out in 2000 from Alyson Books. He has all his limbs.