“Wet enough for you?” Lyla asked, watching the raindrops wind their way down Theresa's muscular arms as she paddled. The sky had been a clear and cloudless blue when they set out that morning, but by mid-afternoon it was as grey as the old woolen army blanket Lyla was now pulling over her head as a makeshift raincoat. The Summer rain didn’t mess around. Once it started it came down hard.
“I hate to say I told you so, but, well, I told you so. It always rains here on New Year's Eve. It's like a rule or something,” Lyla continued. “Honestly we might as well be swimming!”
“Are you asking me to throw you overboard? Because I will!” Theresa turned so Lyla could see her mascara streaked face. The firm set of her mouth said she was only half joking.
“No,” Lyla squeaked.
“Well then shut up and keep an eye out for a good spot on the bank to rest. We can shelter under the canoe.”
In a few minutes time they were doing just that. Lyla nestled into the crook of Theresa's arm as the rain hammered a tattoo on the hull of the canoe drowning out the calls of the birds and the sound of the river. Theresa slid a hand down to the fly of Lyla's jeans and expertly popped the button open. Going on texture alone she moved her fingers past soft lace and feathery hair until she reached the warm slit hidden there. She began the lazy rhythmic stroking that usually had her young Australian lover purring like a cat.
Suddenly, Lyla giggled.
“Is something funny?” Theresa asked.
“Sorry, I was just thinking of something from Monty Python.”
“At a time like this! What was it?”
“Oh, just that what we're doing is like your American beer.” Lyla loved ribbing Theresa about her country, but this was odd timing even for her.
“What?” Theresa's voice took on a warning tone.
“It's fucking close to water!” Lyla giggled again heedless of the consequences.
“Fucking? I'll give you fucking!”
Theresa rolled on top of Lyla and tugged down her jeans. Pinning the slender blonde's hands above her head with just one of her own strong hands she kissed her roughly. As her tongue pushed its way into her lover's mouth she reached down with her free hand and resumed her exploration of Lyra's cunt. She slipped first one, then two fingers rapidly in and out reaching for the familiar rough spot in the velvety wetness. She pulled away from Lyra's mouth and the blonde gasped “Lube! Backpack. Front pocket.”
Moments later, Lyra gasped at the cold wetness as Theresa's fingers drove back into her, three this time, then four. Finally Theresa pushed and felt her whole fist slide in. Lyra rocked against her hand as she pumped in and out, filling her completely.
Afterwards, as Lyla lay there gasping, Theresa smiled. “Yeah. That's wet enough.”
Evelyn Applegate writes romance and erotic fiction. She lives in Brisbane, Australia, with two cats, Heinrich and Butternut, and a ridiculous number of shoes. Her veins frequently contain more coffee than blood. She enjoys creative writing and reads a lot. Her favourite authors include Poppy Z. Brite, Anais Nin and Kelley Armstrong. Her work has appeared in For the Girls Magazine and Every Night Erotica. She also has a paranormal erotica ebook, Land of A Thousand Dances, available through Logical Lust.