Chapter Text
Here is the situation in simple terms: Bianka is in love with her best friend, Rita. Bianka watched a camgirl named Rosemary who looked like Rita to satiate herself, because a girl can only take so much pent-up hunger before she does something very stupid, like telling her best friend she loves her, which would undoubtedly ruin their friendship. Rosemary is Rita and last night she moaned Bianka’s name as she climaxed.
Now what?
Well, Bianka’s trying to figure that out.
Sitting next to Rita in lecture hall, not absorbing any of the information set out in front of her, she wishes that she had taken some sort of evidence of that moment which has tilted her world on its axis: a screenshot of Rosemary’s— Rita’s— face, an audio recording of Bianka (Bi-an- k’ahh, it had gone, the inflection burned in her memory, the last syllable cut into a hard breath), anything. Last night, it had been so obvious to her, but now— what if her memory is playing tricks on her? What if she wants this one thing so badly that her own brain is trying to give it to her?
Rita is taking notes in perfect blue-ink cursive. When the professor pauses in his lecture to answer a question, she pulls up her pen and spins it in her hand, poking at her bottom lip with its round end. The velvet pink of the skin dips below it. It feels obscene. Bianka can’t look away.
Class resumes after that brief interlude. Rita doesn’t notice Bianka looking, or she does and she’s just very good at hiding it. Bianka has known this woman for five years and loved her for as many, and she still can’t get a good read on her. She turns her attention to the teacher and tries to focus. It doesn’t work.
It isn’t until class is over and they’re walking the halls back to the library, their shared study spot, that Bianka gets her answers. “So,” Rita says, holding her bookbag to her chest, “do I have something on my face, or was there another reason you were staring at me all through class?”
Bianka can’t keep it in. She’s never been very good at keeping secrets: they’re too big in her chest to remain there. “I need to talk to you.”
Rita smiles, indulgent. “We can talk in the library.”
“No—” her face goes bright red thinking of having this particular chat anywhere near a public area— “no, I don’t think we can.”
Rita pauses. She turns to fully face Bianka. Worry creases between her brows. “Is something wrong?”
“Um,” Bianka says, eloquent as always, her face burning, “do you want to go to my apartment?”
“My dorm is closer,” Rita says, and she does have a single, so Bianka nods a quick assent.
Sensing the urgency of the matter at hand, Rita hurries with Bianka at her heels. With every step, the anxiety of what she holds brands deeper into her stomach, like her ribs are red-hot, melting the organs beneath. When she finally reaches her dorm and lets Bianka in, closing the door so that it’s only Rita and Bianka and the perfectly-decorated little apartment, Bianka can’t hold it in anymore.
“Are you Rosemary?” she blurts.
Rita lets out a nervous laugh and moves into her kitchenette, setting up a pot of tea. She does not look Bianka in the eyes. “What does that mean?”
If Rita didn’t know anything about it, she would have laughed exasperatedly and said ‘now what are you talking about’, or something to that point. She certainly wouldn’t be doing this, and it’s almost certain she knows she’s giving herself away. Rita is a good liar, so why is she making a show of all this? “I mean,” Bianka continues, stronger, “that I saw something last night. I saw your face on—” her face flushes— “on a camgirl I was watching.”
Rita raises her eyebrows, flicks the kettle on to boil, and turns around. “And what were you doing watching a camgirl?”
“That’s not important.”
“I would say it’s very important.” Bianka feels like they’re two animals circling each other, both waiting for one to stumble and make an opening.
If her face wasn’t already burning up, that tone of voice, imperious and yet gentle, would do it. So how does she go on from here? She can’t very well say I was watching a camgirl because that was the day you wore that low-cut red shirt, and I could have traced the blue lines of your veins of your breasts down to where they clustered, and I wanted to.
Or, well. Can’t she say that?
This is awful. She’d imagined her love confession (in the few moments when she hadn’t dismissed it as impossible) as something grand, as enormous as the feelings she’s trying to express. But the chances of Rita reciprocating are null, so if she just speaks it here, then—
Rita does reciprocate. Bi-an-k’ahh. Her mouth open, her pussy spread wide, dripping wet from both.
“Because,” Bianka says weakly.
“Because why?” Rita smiles.
The words seal in her throat. Bianka can’t express this. So instead, she lets out a breath, closes the distance between herself and Rita with a few quick steps, grasps Rita’s face between her hands, and kisses her, hard enough to send them both knocking into the cabinets. Rita should push her away, but she doesn’t; she deepens it, instead, her tongue licking against Bianka’s mouth until it opens for her, and Bianka moans under the hard impetus. The world goes fuzzy at the edges. When she pulls away, Rita’s eyes are wide, caught and questioning.
Her mouth kiss-wet and dry with nerves at the same time, Bianka manages, “I was watching her because I wanted you.”
“I was her because I wanted you, ” Rita returns, her hands skating down Bianka’s shoulders. “Do you know how much I wished that one day you would come over to my dorm unannounced and catch me streaming—” Bianka kisses her again before she can finish that thought, because hearing it will absolutely drive her mad, and Rita melts into her. Bianka shoves her into the counter, but Rita doesn’t chastise her; she just sits on it and winds her legs around Bianka’s hips, tugging her until they are groin-to-groin and Bianka can feel the heat of Rita’s hunger through her pants. “So…” she whispers, when they break apart for air, her lips cherry-red, “do you want to do something about it?”
Bianka pulls her tight into her arms and lets Rita shove the both of them onto the bed. She sits up when Bianka’s lying down, straddled over her hips, her face flush with brilliant happiness. Bianka doesn’t know what to say now that this forbidden dream has been realized: does she confess it here, I’ve always loved you, or does she promise to make her feel everything, I’m going to take you apart? Rita wants her too— there are no words for that.
“Sit on my face,” is what comes out of her, passing from interest to thought to spoken word before she’s had the chance to authorize any of it.
Rita smiles like a hawk. “If that’s what you want,” she murmurs, and bends over to get out of her little black skirt. Bianka’s stomach flips seeing those legs, which she knows so well from the other side of the screen, opening up above her, and then— then the world is nothing but wet heat, and Bianka closes her eyes in ecstasy and licks.
It’s tentative at first, exploring, but as Rita begins to make noises above her, muffled through her thighs over Bianka’s ears, she grows bold: thrusting inward with her tongue, snaking it forward, mapping her body with the supreme cartography of a woman in lust, each detail priceless. She starves for this. Rita’s groin relaxes as she grows into it, and she rolls her hips forward and back seeking more until Bianka grasps her ass and pulls her down tight against her mouth. She’s running out of air but hardly cares. With the tip of her tongue she presses against Rita’s clit and feels the artery throbbing beneath it. Each pulse of the blood goes through her flesh and into Bianka’s. She aches with fervent greed. The smooth silken folds yield to her worship, until Rita’s cries become something outright pornographic (but for no audience— for Bianka alone!) and her thighs clamp around Bianka’s head, shuddering. Her come spurts out of her and across Bianka’s face, soaking her. Bianka could follow her just like this. The orgasm doesn’t subside for a long while. Bianka keeps pulling more out of it until Rita outright shoves her face away, her chest heaving with long breaths.
She’s blushing a brilliant beautiful red. “How long have you been wanting to do that?” she murmurs through feeble attempts to get her breath back.
I did this to her, Bianka thinks to herself, enormously pleased. “Since the day I met you,” she confesses.
Rita licks her lips. As she recovers herself, something else grows in her eyes, beyond satisfaction: something hungry. “I don’t suppose I could return the favor?”
“Oh, please,” Bianka says, spreading her legs and smiling, heart beating as fast as it can without failing. “Go ahead.”
But first Rita leans down to kiss her, even through the taste of her own come. Then, she descends, and Bianka is in heaven.