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They never seemed to be any lucky with this whole going out on dates business.
Sure, they spent time together: they snuggled and cuddled and had impressive amounts of amazing sex. But going out? Not so much.
Tonight was going to be different. Hanna had made the dinner reservations a month and a half in advance, and had circled the date in her calendar, and Spencer had picked a special outfit for the evening, more carefully than she’d like to admit. They were going to have a fifth anniversary, unlike the previous years where somehow, all their plans seemed to go up in smoke, one way or another.
Last year, it had happened that Spencer had a very important tennis match scheduled for the day – a matter of pride, she had said, and Hanna understood perfectly. She had also understood when Spencer was too worn out afterwards to do celebratory dinner, or celebratory drinks, or celebratory anything other than lazy sex and cuddles and falling asleep on the couch. It hadn’t bothered either of them.
Nor had it bothered them the year before, when Hanna had a family emergency – family emergency being code for her mother freaking out on the phone, calling a fashion disaster and requesting Hanna’s immediate assistance in choosing an outfit for her date. Which, ew, but Hanna had gone anyway. It hadn’t bothered either of them, really.
But this year? was going to be different.
At least until a week after the date, when it so happened that Hanna’s boss got fired and replaced, all in the course of two frantic days wherein her previous superior’s sex life had been discussed way, way more than acceptable.
The new boss had been hard on everyone, but to Hanna, it seemed all the more unfair that she was stuck there alone, at eight p.m. on a Friday. Scratch that: on their Friday, and she had asked for the evening off about a month before the date, but no luck.
And so, the evening of their fifth anniversary, Hanna is working.
Technically, she doesn’t even have anything to do – she’s supposed to wait for a delivery she has to sign off on, and the post-it on her desk says “eight to midnight”. She’s been flipping back and forth through the pages of her magazine for the past, what, half an hour? This should be enough. The delivery man will come, drop off the package, and she’ll be off. The dinner reservations are still on, and they don’t have to be there until ten. Of course, they missed the movie, but that doesn’t mean the evening is ruined. This is just a bump along the road. Hanna’s going to get this done, and then treat her girlfriend to dinner, and then bring her home and have amazing, life-changing sex.
It just happens that she’s still sitting alone at the front desk by half past nine, and by then it’s become pretty obvious that dinner is off. She’s been texting with Spencer back and forth, not giving up on her pretense to take them out on a date, but Spencer has become less and less enthusiastic over it in the past thirty minutes, and instead counting the time till Hanna can get off and, well, get off.
It’s nine fifty-five when the intercom rings, and she buzzes the door open, sighing. Had the guy been there fifteen minutes earlier, he would have saved the day. Evening. Whatever. She’s prepared to yell at him for the disruption, and she’s sure he’s quite aware of how… unbecoming it is, to come by at such a time. She supposes he doesn’t want to be working at this time of the night any more than she does, and it feels that much more unfair that he didn’t get there earlier.
But then the door clicks shut and it’s not Alan, the grouchy delivery guy. It’s Spencer, wearing an oversized trench coat and a knowing smirk, and Hanna doesn’t even want to know what she doesn’t have on underneath it.
Or, she does. Very much.
-
Ten minutes later and Hanna is down to her underwear, bent down over the desk and gripping the edge white-knuckled and breathless. Spencer’s warm body is draped all over her back, a hand in her hair pulling her head back, baring her throat, and she’s kissing all over her collarbone with teeth that scrape and leave red marks. She’s buried three fingers deep in her cunt with her other hand, thumb flicking over her clit rough and insistent and fucking in and out of her fast and deep. Hanna’s still wearing her panties, and they’re going to be ruined, but who’s to care?
She’s whimpering now, the forearms on the desk supporting her weight shaking harder and harder as the pressure becomes unbearable, and her vision clouds. Spencer is talking her off, whispering rough in her ear with that low voice of hers how anyone could come in right then, how the delivery guy could open the door and see them there, Spencer’s hair falling all over Hanna’s back as she fucks her harder and harder, and Hanna taking it like a pro, such a good girl, such a good little slut, isn’t she?
Spencer bets Hanna would just love that: love an audience, someone to watch them rock-hard and unable to do anything about it, and unable to join.
She flicks Hanna around and sits her up on the desk, hands trailing on her bare thighs and the soft hair on her pussy, kissing her open-mouthed and filthy. Spencer looks past debauched now, and when she licks her lips and falls to her knees it’s the prettiest, filthiest vision Hanna has ever had.
Her lips tease her for what seems like forever, trailing on her legs from her ankle to the inside of her thighs, fingers pressing and kneading on the muscles of her legs, all the pressure she needs but never where she wants it so desperately. Spencer licks and mouths and leaves hickeys all over Hanna’s stomach, bends her backward to bite on the side of a breast, lick over a nipple light enough not to do any good. Hanna tries to get the job done herself, trails her fingers down her body until her hot cunt, but Spencer just slaps her hand away, a mock-scowl on her face. No need to hurry, Hanna. Good girl can wait.
She slips her thumb inside Hanna slow as she can, sliding it along the edge, the pressure smooth and constant, and she finally, finally sets her mouth around her clit and gets to work.
The stimulation is always too much or not enough, Spencer’s tongue slipping alongside her finger and licking inside of her for a minute, knocking Hanna’s breath right out of her lungs in a cry for release, and then gone again, and she’s working her fingers across her pussy, back and forth but barely there, and her eyes lit up when Hanna resorts to begging.
Then it’s just her mouth, pointy tongue circling around her clit and making her scream, and then flat across her pussy as she licks and nibbles on her labia, first slowly and then quickening her pace, flicking back and forth, and she moans like the first sinner when Hanna pulls her closer by her hair, fucks her face so desperate for it, so desperate for release. She’s mumbling, trying to get Spencer to slip her tongue inside of her again, she feels so empty.
The Spencer gets up, walks a few steps away, and Hanna doesn’t even see anything, her eyes are so misty. She begs with nonsense words for Spencer to come back, to finish the job, to fuck her good as she promised. She’ll be a good girl; she just wants to get off.
She hears the telltale snapping of a belt tightening shut, and then Spencer’s hand is on her hip, setting her legs apart further, closing them around her own waist, and the tip of a strap-on dildo is teasing at her entrance, slipping up and down and pressing over her clit. She cries out loud at her need for more, for all of it, and then Spencer snaps her hips forward all the way, and she’d be in balls deep if only that thing had any.
If there’s one thing Hanna’s learned about Spencer’s sexual prowesses in all those years, it’s this: girl can fuck. Hanna might be better at oral, and at getting Spencer off with just her pretty smile and her fingers, but Spencer can definitely fuck her into the mattress on a bad day. Just tie her hands to the headboard real tight, push her face down on a pillow and take her. And right now isn’t any different – she thrusts forward and backward with a twisting motion, rubbing over Hanna’s clit lightly, like it isn’t even needed.
And just like that, Hanna is coming, gripping around Spencer’s neck to pull her down, and kissing her, and Spencer is giggling still buried inside of her.
-
Maybe, in the end, they don’t need fancy dates or black-and-white movies in smelly theaters to be in love, and if they end up as the annoying stay-at-home couple in their forties, that never even goes to parties anymore and has their friends over for dinner and homemade cake, how bad can that be?
And how bad can their luck be, when they have just enough time to clean up and get dressed before Alan, the grouchy delivery guy, gets there?