This is my first attempt at fanfiction! Well, not really my first, but as a sort of short break from a much longer piece I'm working on. Dunno where it came from... was headed to bed last night and felt compelled to hammer it out. Just a sweet, short PWP with our two favorite dames from the forties.
TITLE: A Sentimental Journey
SUMMARY: Janice comes home from her last day of the semester. Mel is in the kitchen, making dinner. A lot of happy loving ensues, and very little else.
DISCLAIMERS: I don't own nothin'. Violence? nope. Angst? none. Sex? absolutely.
Please feel free to give me some feedback at firstname.lastname@example.org I'd love to hear thoughts/constructi ve criticism, and thanks for letting me post my "first" so publicly!
(also! this is a stand alone story... for now)
Janice could hear the soft sounds of the kitchen radio as soon as she killed the engine of the '42 Chevy half-ton pickup truck. She sucked her teeth idly and checked her reflection in the bulbous distortion of the glossy black paint of the hood, settling her fedora back at a jaunty angle. A blunt-nailed thumb smoothed imaginary dust from the front headlamp.
“Got my bags, got my reservation” floated out of the window of the rambling Victorian in a lazy contralto. Janice turned toward the house and smiled. She had nothing in particular to be in a good mood about, and yet everything; this truck, hers from the generous grant and subsequent chairing of the department of anthropology and archaeology at the prestigious College of Charleston . This home, crawling with ivy creepers and trellises and balconies, much of which had been painted and repaired with her own two hands. The lush, night air, almost shimmering a hazy pink from the azaleas and the humidity. And the best for last: there was the singing woman in the house. And all of it was hers.
Her white shirtsleeves were rolled up to their elbows, and one hand snaked its way into the pocket of her khaki-colored, A-line skirt. The other held a worn leather satchel, traded years ago in Greece for half a bottle of whiskey and a new deck of playing cards. Janice leaned against the side of the truck for a moment and breathed in the moment.
“Like a child, in wild anticipation…” Janice closed her eyes, letting the melody pull her up the walk, up the stairs, and to the screen door. The spring protested softly as she crossed the threshold, immediately kicking off the brown leather pumps she wore as a nod to the austerity of her position at the school. They paid her well. This allowed her to travel every summer, and take a sabbatical semester every other year to further her work and research more leads on additional Xena scrolls. It also kept Mel from needing to support her; something Janice, despite her best efforts, couldn't help but be prideful about. Her dollars were earned, always. But the pumps came off at the door, and the fedora went on in the truck.
Janice could hear the sounds of plates clinking together in the kitchen. Mel was probably setting the table in the small eating nook in the rearmost part of the house, behind and to the side of the kitchen. There was a series of large windows, jutting out in a bay, and they liked to eat there when it was the two of them. There was a more formal dining room between the foyer, where Janice stood, and the kitchen. A parlor was off to her right, and a large library/den was beyond it, finishing off the first floor of the house. This was where they worked, and sometimes where Janice went straight after coming home from work. There she would tumble the contents of her satchel out onto the large oak table, mulling over translations or groaning at the weight of 45 theses. But not tonight.
Her satchel hit the floor. Small, strong hands reached up under the edge of her skirt and Janice half-hopped as she divested herself of the seamed, silk stockings trapping her legs and feet. She sighed as her bare toes gripped the wooden planks of the dining room floor. She was leaving a trail, she thought, as she hung her beloved hat on the high back of a passing chair. Oh well.
The next song came onto the radio, and Mel kept pace gamely, humming along with the introduction. She has such a beautiful voice, Janice thought, as she reached the doorjamb of the kitchen and leaned sideways against it, arms crossed. This was the best moment of her day.
Mel stood with her back to Janice, peeling carrots into the sink. She had on a pale blue blouse with lightly puffed short sleeves and a hint of white tatting on the hems, resting at the top of her biceps. It was Janice's favorite shirt; it brought out Mel's eyes and made them (if possible) even more piercing. She was wearing a skirt much like Janice's in cut and length, but of a deep navy blue. Silk stockings, which Janice hated on herself but made no bones about admiring on her friend, covered impossibly long, shapely calves, leading down to dark blue pumps. Mel was wearing a white apron, the strings hanging down over her rounded hips and rear. Janice sighed, never having stopped smiling from the moment she pulled in the driveway.
“Don't sit under the apple tree, with anyone else but me…” Mel couldn't help but grin as she sang, knowing she wasn't alone. Nobody could make her back feel like it was on fire just by looking at it like Janice Covington could. She could feel Janice getting closer; then, almost lighter than a feather, she felt hands touch her sides. The grin stole into a full smile as those hands, calloused, tan, and yet impossibly gentle, coiled around her waist and closed over her stomach.
“Honey, I'm home,” Janice warbled softly, their height difference combined with Mel's shoes putting her mouth slightly below the dark-haired woman's shoulderblades. Mel swayed slightly to the music, feeling the smaller woman's abdomen curving around her bottom. She felt Janice's lips turn upwards, and the blonde woman's arms slackened so that her forearms were resting on Mel's hips. Mel put down her peeler and carrots, and carefully turned around, so as not to plant a heel on a foot she was sure was bare.
“Well hello, darlin',” Mel called back softly, looking at her favorite face. Janice felt she truthfully got the better end of the reposition, however, as her face was now directly in her favorite cleavage, and her hands were cupping her favorite posterior. Impish green eyes looked up into devoted blue.
“How was your day?” queried the translator, her long, tapered fingers combing back stray locks of hair that had made it out of the sensible bun at the nape of Janice's neck. Janice sighed deeply, inhaling the scent of the lavender toilet water Mel always wore. She brought her hands up to Mel's lower back, and simply squeezed the taller woman in a heartfelt hug.
“Just got a lot better,” Janice mumbled, closing her eyes and lowering her head. The archaeologist was beyond grateful that the blue shirt wasn't buttoned all the way to the top. Mel may have been the linguist, but Janice knew how to treat priceless treasures. She buried her face in the valley between the brunette's breasts, turning her head one way and then another as she covered the creamy skin with the softest of kisses.
“Janice, I…” Mel started, and then sighed as one hand stayed on the back of her partner's head. “Oh, my.” The other traveled down over a shoulder and clutched at the white shirt, bunching it into a ball in her palm. Without even thinking about it, Janice pushed a strong thigh between Mel's long legs. The translator was utterly pinned between the counter and Janice's amorous attentions; one hand had stayed on the small of her back, and the other had come around and was kneading a round breast through her shirt.
“Good… Lord,” Mel finally managed, her hands springing back against the edge of the counter, curling around the lip of the ceramic tiles for balance. Janice curled a lip of her own.
“Nope, the name's Covington , but it's a common mistake,” came the saucy reply, Janice's mouth lopsided in a rakish grin. The archaeologist lowered her leg and stepped back enough to give Mel her balance once more.
“I do declare, Dr. Covington,” Mel's face was flushed, and her eyes blazed indigo. She gave a nervous half-laugh as she brought a hand up to steady her glasses.
“Yes, you frequently do,” Janice agreed, coming up on tiptoe to peck at her lover's lips, which Mel ducked her head for unconsciously. They met in the middle, and it was warm and heady, the blonde tasting the salty hint of sweat from the brunette's upper lip and knowing she put it there. Tongues met and took their time: soft, supple, giving. Janice more than loved Mel; she loved loving Mel. Not even a pristine scroll felt this right in her hands. Hands that were now being batted away, as Mel broke off the kiss and shoved her shoulders lightly.
“Y'all go away now, shoo,” the translator admonished. The petite blonde whimpered, a cross between a puppy denied its toy and a strong-willed child preparing to throw a tantrum.
“Darlin', I'm gonna burn your dinner if you don't go on,” Mel cupped Janice's cheek in sympathy. Truth be told, her own heart was still racing, and she'd like to go back to exactly what they had been doing moments earlier. The smell of chicken in the oven was growing stronger by the second, however, and she could wait no longer.
“I put a cold beer for y'all on the table. Why don't you relax for a few minutes while I finish up?”
“Alright, toots,” Janice acquiesced, leaning up and kissing Mel with a startling intensity. She abruptly pulled away, leaving the translator panting again.
“One for the road,” she winked, swinging by the kitchen table and grabbing the brown bottle. “I'll be back down in a minute.” She swatted the navy-clad derriere as she passed, breaking into a trot as Mel whooped and snapped at her calves with a dishtowel.
“OHHH! Janice!” Mel hollered after her. She heard bare feet thumping up the stairs, and nearly broke a plate at the reply.
“Ohhhh,” the archaeologist mimicked her outburst, with very different overtones. “Melinda.”
The plate shattered on the floor.
Two hours later, they sat in the dusky twilight on the back porch. Janice sat on one end of a wooden swing, her still bare feet now poking out of the bottom of a pair of worn men's trousers. She wore a plain white t-shirt, her hair freed from the confines of the bun and in a lazy ponytail instead. A half-drank whiskey sat on a small table next to the swing, and a half-smoked cigar dangled from her left hand, off the side of the armrest.
Mel lay on her back, her head pillowed in Janice's lap. She had divested herself of shoes and stockings, and her bare legs were bent at the knee so that her skirt rode up several inches on her long thighs. Her hands held Janice's right hand against her upper stomach, and she rubbed the lightly scarred knuckles without thought. The radio still played in the background, and absentmindedly, Mel continued to hum along.
“Whatcha thinkin about, Yankee?” the linguist drawled, dragging well-manicured though fairly short nails up the blonde's arm. Janice shivered. Mel smiled.
“You.” Forest green bore into her.
“Cold?” Mel asked, as she brought her fingertips back down and got a similar reaction. Janice paused, took a drag on her cigar, then downed the rest of the whiskey. She dropped the smoking stub into the ice and it hissed.
“Miss Pappas, I don't believe I've been cold since I met you, and I certainly can't recall ever catching a chill in South Carolina .” Janice smiled, and brought her now-free left hand across her lap and very gently removed Mel's glasses. They went carefully next to the smoldering tumbler. Reverent strokes by steady hands traced one eyebrow, then another. Mel closed her eyes and felt that if she had tried to imagine what tension felt like, she would be unableto do so. Janice found a path down across a temple and into the whorls of a perfectly-shaped, ivory colored ear.
“Janice,” Mel sighed, struggling to remain coherent. Every touch seemed to be instinctual between them; it had always been this way. The hand on her stomach had started a gentle coaxing. It wasn't insistently headed to another part of her anatomy, and it was less sexual than it was intimate. All of her wanted all of Janice. The ache nearly made her cough.
“Melinda,” Janice replied softly with a sweet half-grin, resurrecting their earlier playfulness in the kitchen. Mel's features crinkled into the most beautiful smile Janice had ever seen.
“I love how you say my name,” the brunette admitted, blushing slightly. Her eyes lowered briefly, then met the blonde's with unflinching honesty. “I love you.”
The words, spoken many times before, never lost their unerring rawness in Janice's heart. She was filled with gratitude—again—for the gift of Melinda Pappas. The archaeologist ducked her head and gave her appreciation as best as she knew how, before pulling away and trailing a wet path to the same ear she'd been tracing all the while.
“I love you too,” she breathed, then pulled back to nip at a nose, trace cheeks, and worship a mouth. “Let me take you inside and show you how much?”
“Why, Dr. Covington,” Mel teased, sliding a hand up and cupping the archaeologist's neck, before pulling her down for another leisurely kiss. “Are you propositioning me?”
“Yes,” Janice chuckled.
“Well then, I accept.”
The ceiling fan churned sluggishly in the humid air. The lights were out, but the windows were open, facing the backyard and its heavy abundance of magnolias. The moon was full, and the room was bathed in a blue glow. Crickets sang in the night air, the only counterpoint to the gentle sounds of kissing and the rustle of clothes being loosened and discarded.
Janice stilled her partner's hands, reaching up to remove the pins that held her hair up and out of the way. Long, raven tresses tumbled down, curling in the damp air as they brushed across alabaster shoulders.
“Mel, you've ruined me for other broads.” Janice confessed, leaning in to nibble on a long, elegant neck.
“Well, I should certainly hope so,” the linguist replied, reaching down to unfasten the blonde's trousers. Janice pulled back, briefly, to whip her shirt over her head, flinging it across the room where it hit the wall and slid to the floor. Mel brought her hands up from the now unfastened pants and they pooled around the blonde's ankles. Long, tapered fingers circled the archeologist's breasts before cupping them.
“Ruined,” Janice nearly moaned, throwing her head back. Her small hands came up to press over Mel's larger ones, as the translator sidestepped out of her own skirt. Fully divested of all body coverings, the brunette pulled the blonde close to her. She could find words for just about anything that came along, and if not in English, in any one of the dozen other languages she spoke with proficiency. But this… this defied description. She could think about the softness of Janice's skin, the way their bodies fit together, the hinge of joint and bone, the shift of weight and balance… but it was an elusive conjugation. The etymology of love stymied her.
Somehow they ended up on the great rice bed, limbs akimbo, laughing softly because they were happy, and in love, and alive. Knowing it was a gift, and taking it for what it was.
Janice shifted, rolling onto her back and pulling Mel over top of her. She loved this; loved this dark-haired beauty poised over her, with the look on her face that could only be defined as hunger. It gripped something in Janice that she could not label and identify neatly. This was dangerous. This was not something she could catalogue, and place within historical context, and restore—it was wild and alive, and took her breath away. It was intoxicating, and Janice was an eager drunk.
“You are so beautiful,” she said softly, tucking a hunk of blue-streaked midnight behind a ghostly-white ear.
“You sweet talker, you,” Mel replied, blushing again and lowering herself all along Janice's length. The smaller woman brought her arms around the linguist's back, running hands from shoulder to hip. Both women smiled as their lips met, tongues dancing, as an ancient rhythm began in almost maddening slowness.
Mel shifted slightly, and Janice's thigh came to rest between her legs. The blonde's other leg curled up around the brunette's low back, a slender ankle laying delicately across her spine. The translator braced part of her weight on a forearm for leverage, and reached her left hand down, pulling at the archaeologist's hip to bring their bodies even closer. Her fingers splayed across a rounded buttock, keeping the extra pressure there with each roll of their bodies.
Janice kept her eyes open, her face now nearly shrouded in a curtain of sweet-smelling, dark hair. They had broken apart, and now their cheeks rested against one another, breath tickling a nearby ear. Janice moved her hands around to the front, one reaching up to circle a breast, the other heading southward.
Mel's head flew back and she laughed softly as the blonde tickled her belly button. She brushed noses with Janice as they rolled to their sides, facing one another, and the archaeologist's hand neared the apex of the brunette's thighs.
Janice leaned forward, tracing a line down Mel's throat with her tongue as she slowly dipped a single finger into the silky wetness she found below. Mel groaned, involuntarily clamping her legs together to try to keep the blonde's hand where it was. Fortunately, the archaeologist still had a thigh between the brunette's knees, or she might have broken a finger.
“Open up for me, sweetheart. That's a girl,” Janice cooed into a nearby ear. Mel rolled fully over on her back and let her legs fall open, her face flushed with desire. Janice straddled a leg, bringing her right hand back to the brunette's mound and cupping it before resuming her motions. Her left side was along Mel's right as she half-lay on top of the taller woman. Her left arm stretched over the translator's head, holding her hand with fingers intertwined.
Janice gently brought one, then two fingers back into play between Mel's legs, tracing every contour with the utmost care. She was, after all, a woman who appreciated the contrast of texture. Finally, she found a hardened nub that easily stood out, demanding attention. Her mouth feasted on other peaks, further north. Mel groaned in delirium.
Janice felt the quiver, and knew her lover was not far from leaping over the edge. She gentled and slowed her movements, pulling her mouth away from a nipple with a near-audible pop. Mel whimpered in frustration. Janice's right hand made its intentions known, as green met blue.
“Melinda?” the blonde's voice was almost beseeching. “Please, may I?” Mel felt beyond words—she always did at this point, partly for the shy, almost bewildered way that Janice always asked her permission. She also partly felt this way because she was incoherent from pleasure.
“Please.” The brunette was only capable of this, but it was enough. Janice smiled and obliged her request, slipping two fingers inside to the softest, most beautiful thing her hands had ever felt. She stilled for a moment, to give her partner a chance to relax and adjust.
“Are you alright?”
“Jan, darlin', if I was any more alright, I'd have to hire someone to help me,” Mel gasped, rolling her hips once to give her partner the right idea.
Janice laughed, a clear peal that brought a smile to Mel's face. She lowered her head once more and blew in a sensitive ear before nipping at an earlobe.
“That…” lips traced a corded muscle to a finely shaped collarbone.
“Is good…” teeth nipped lightly at a pulse point, and Mel moaned.
“To hear.” Janice rose up again, bringing their still joined hands down from over Mel's head and settled herself more on top of the taller woman.
“Melinda, look at me,” the blonde beseeched, bringing the brunette's palm over her own heart and securing it there with a small hand. “Let me see you, baby.”
Mel whimpered and complied, fixing her steady blue gaze on the darkened irises inches from her own. Janice began to move again, and she knew it would not be long. Her free hand moved around the circle of a shoulder, alternately gripping and relaxing with each thrust from her partner, who was using her hand and the entirety of her body weight in each oscillation.
Mel's legs spread wider, coming up and wrapping both around Janice's back as they moved more insistently, closer with each breath to a singular goal.
“That's it, sweetheart.” Janice's voice was shaking. She almost felt lightheaded. The blonde's arms strained, her back tensed, and her leg muscles grew taut. Her voice broke as she spoke again.
“Melinda, I love you.”
The brunette was suspended- a guide wire ran from her torso, through and out away from her groin and into infinite space, drawing her forward, hammering her heart painfully against her chest. The soles of her feet burned. Her calves tensed painfully and her toes curled under the strain. Her eyes lost color as the pupils took over, and in the next instant, she shuddered, wailing uncontrollably. She finally broke her gaze with her lover, eyes rolling back in her head with the softest of sighs, riding out the waves of her climax.
The archaeologist's fingers stilled, the tips just brushing that velvety spot with a more gentle, slow pass at each warm clench. Mel's legs fell open, and she slumped bonelessly to the bed. Her eyes remained closed. Even, steady breath issued from between ruby red lips, her face still flushed with desire.
“Another happy K.O., kid,” Janice mumbled to herself, grinning. “You haven't lost your touch.”
The blonde took the next few minutes to arrange their bodies comfortably in the bed. In deference to the late spring heat, she only pulled a white sheet up over their skin, which-she grinned-was already quite warm. Mel remained on her back and Janice spooned up to the side of her, nestling her blonde head, hair long loosed from the confines of the ponytail, across a broad shoulder. A hip was thrown over upper thighs; an arm, placed carefully along a ribcage with a hand cupping a perfect breast.
Janice sighed. She felt a measure of tension re-enter her partner as she began to regain her composure, a long arm snaking around her back and patting her rump affectionately.
“Good gravy,” the linguist muttered dryly, rubbing her face with her free hand. Janice nearly shrieked with laughter, shaking the both of them in the large bed. Mel was impossibly classy, but sometimes her southern colloquialisms were enough to send the blonde into fits. The taller woman quickly brought her free arm down to circle her partner in a warm embrace. An embrace that reversed their positions, pinning Janice between her longer frame.
“Y'all quit laughin' at little ole me,” Mel pouted, the blonde taking full advantage of the pendulous lip poised over her own. She also took advantage of the fact that a perfect, rounded cheek sat under her left hand.
“Yowch!” the brunette jumped as the pinch was felt. “Why, Janice Covington, you're going to be the death of me.” The erstwhile hand stilled, first to a comforting rub, and then a sensual stroke.
“That's the idea, my dear,” the archaeologist burred, pulling away from her most favorite mouth.
“Y'all should finish up semesters all the time, if'n this is my reward.” Mel began to move against her partner, slipping a lithe thigh between two powerful ones. Long fingers sought out the back of a knee, pulling it up to give them greater access. Her weight came to rest partly on Janice, partly on her forearm lying next to her partner's head.
“Funny,” the blonde murmured back between soft sighs. “I was thinking the same thing.”
Melinda Pappas chuckled for a moment and then grew more purposeful with her movements.
“Jan, stop thinkin'.”
“Madame,” the blonde panted between thrusts, “I'm always happy to oblige.”
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