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She doesn't know where it's leading at first.
No, wait. That's a lie. She does know.
Because Vera is 25 years old, and she's felt this feeling coursing through her before. She's seen it through to completion several times, in many different positions and a vast array of uncomfortable places. So she knows.
She knows from the moment Marcela grabs her hand—or maybe she grabs hers—and they walk away from the small crowd around the bonfire. She feels it thrumming in her gut as she follows Marcela down to the rocks.
She knows where it's leading, and she wants it. And she doesn't care.
Maybe it's the mushrooms, or her newfound liberty, but she legitimately doesn't give a single fuck.
The first time she kisses Marcela, she bites her.
She grabs her dark mane of hair between her hands, she takes her top lip between her teeth, and bites.
The kisses that follow are much gentler. But she knows she can bite her if she wants.
She's always so concerned about trying to be what they want of her, what they expect, always so busy trying to live up to their fucking fantasies to do what she really wants. But here...she doesn't have to pretend. She's not sure why, if it's because its a woman, or because its Marcela, but she's nothing about what mask to put on. About how to act.
There are no masks.
She's not acting.
She's kissed girls before. Made out with a girl once or twice even. Mostly for guys, for their enterntaiment. To get them hard and lusting for her in the best way available. A couple of times because she was wasted or high as fuck, and a warm body was a warm body.
She could lie to herself, and say that's the case now. But she's trying not to lie to herself.
Marcela is not just a warm body.
She's warm, though. All of her. Her skin, her eyes. She's all bronze cheekbones and black hair in a way that reminds her of Pocahontas, or some warrior princess. And she's sure Carlota would say that's racist in some way, but she doesn't care. She just likes her. She likes the way she looks and how unapologetic Marcela is about it.
Vera is a slave to putting on lipstick every hour, and constantly checking to make sure it doesn't smudge. She posts at least twelve stories every day, because she no longer knows how not to live that way—consumed by what other people think. Obsessed with what strangers imagine about her.
Marcela doesn't give two shits about superficial crap like that. She looks at her and doesn't see the man-eating, confident power bitch she's spent years building. She looks at her and tells her to her face that she didn't want for anything growing up, except for love.
Marcela has all the strenght she wishes she had.
Vera wonders if she can drink it from her lips.
She takes Marcela's shirt off. Her hands drop down to her zipper. There's no hurry here. She's not trying to pull someone's dick fast enough to their like, and nobody is making her kneel in the hard ground, or pushing her head down like she's just a set of holes to choose from. Marcela just touches her. She feels her hands on her back, on her shoulders.
God, Vera feels everything. She feels the sand between her toes and Marcela's tongue inside her mouth. Everything is heightened.
It's amazing, every kiss, every lick, every bite. She doesn't give a fuck what she's doing, that she's seemingly about to have sex with a woman. It feels sinful, but not because of that. She feels like this is gluttony.
This moment in time feels like one of those rich, decandent desserts that Vera hasn't allowed herself to have since she was 13 and started watching her weight. She feels like she's swallowing it whole, unrepetant. It's delicious.
Thank God Ro found those mushrooms.
Vera sighs.
And thank God Marcela found them.
Marcela's hand drops down to her ass, and she moans. It surprises her, because it leaves her body umprompted. She's not thinking about pretending to feel good, or when to start moaning to fake an orgasm—she's just feeling. She's a live wire. She steps closer to Marcela, encouraging her. Her hands on her ass don't feel possesive, even though she wants to be possesed.
Vera steps out of her shorts, and turns around.
Her fingers grasp the rock in front of her as she feels Marcela's tongue on her ass cheek, the curve of her waist, the back of her neck. Marcela's hot breath is on her earlobe and she's smiling, she can't stop smiling.
Marcela's hand slides inside the bottom of her bikini, touching her for the first time.
Her eyes are closed against the night, and for a moment the feeling makes her think she's going to float away.
She turns around, and her hands hold on to the curves of Marcela's body. She dips inside her bathing suit and grabs her ass, and the resulting moan makes something flare up inside her. She kisses her neck, tasting the salt from the beach. She kisses her lips, and her drug-addled brain can only think that it tastes like freedom.
She pulls down the straps of Marcela's bralette. She's not sure when her bikini top dissapears.
But suddenly she's climbing on top of her in the sand, topless, and then she's grinding against her thigh.
She licks Marcela like a kitten. Her tongue runs over the bridge of her nose, her forehead. She doesn't know what the fuck she's doing, all she knows is that it feels good. It feels like its for her. Like she's supposed to do whatever she pleases to feel good and fuck, if sex was always like this maybe she might have liked it more. She presses a kiss to Marcela's forehead, and keeps kissing her as Marcela's lips find her chest.
She grinds against her, Marcela's hand on her ass encouraging her as she finds a rhytmn that works for her. And it does work. She feels that hint of things to come, that little whisper that this might feel really good. She's familiar with it. She's felt it in other arms before, and it's what keeps her chasing them, that promise of a reward that she hasn't gotten yet. A destination she hasn't arrived at.
She's ready for Marcela to stop, for this to change, but it doesn't. Instead, Marcela slips her hand down the front of her bikini bottom's again, and this time she can feel her finger part her lips. The cold of her ring. The intent as she touches her clit in time with her grinding. It does change then. It grows, and she slips into uncharted territories, because it's never felt this good before.
"Ah."
A moan leaves her throat as she looks down at Marcela, smiling. She feels powerful, looking her in the eyes. She's not facing the other way, getting screwed from behind, or kneeling on cold tiles. She's looking into Marcela's dark eyes. The other woman is smiling too, and that moment as they look at each other—the connection she feels—its enough to make her throw her head back and laugh.
And then Marcela's lips go back to her chest, and she groans.
"Ah, ah."
She moves faster still, until she's reduced to nothing but feeling. She'd sat through some boring ass lectures on physics her last year of high school, and she thinks she remembers something about every action having a reaction. She feels like they're operating on that basic level right now. She moans, and Marcela touches her a little harder. She smiles, and she swears she can feel Marcela's teeth shaped like a smile around her nipple.
If Marcela stops, she's sure she'll die.
"Ah!"
Something snaps.
Vera raises her arms, feeling like she's free-falling.
The feelings spreads from between her legs up to her stomach and down to her thighs, pulling moans from her throat. She clenches and pulsates around nothing, but Marcela's fingers against her clit are enough to keep the feeling going. It's like wildfire, consuming all of her. And then, a few glorious seconds later, it's over, and she melts again the strong woman beneath her.
Vera catches her breath.
And...oh.
So that's what that feels like.