Billie-Jean & Sammie-Rae VII
Sunday arrives with the brightness of a headache.
I sit at the kitchen table, the morning rays glaring off the linoleum, the smell of syrup and batter thick in the air.
Mum sets a stack of pancakes in front of me, her expression expectant.
"You need the energy, seven work days straight," she says, reaching for the maple syrup.
She pours a generous amount, the amber liquid pooling over the edges and soaking into the fluffy stack.
"Ten days on, four days off... It's a brutal roster, Billie. No wonder you're moping around."
She thinks the dark circles under my eyes are from fatigue, from the long hours at Sunhaven Pool.
She doesn't know it's from the secret I'm drowning in, from the way Sammie's words tore through my defences yesterday afternoon.
I pick up my fork and push the pancakes around my plate, watching the syrup drip onto the china. My stomach is in knots.
When I get to the pool, the transformation is jarring.
The usual blue-and-white aesthetic has been hijacked.
Rainbow bunting hangs from the lifeguard tower, snapping in the breeze.
Rainbow balloons bob along the water's edge, a riot of colour against the chlorinated hues.
Crap. Sammie, I hate you. It's not your call.
Peter Arnold is already sweating, his tight polo shirt sticking to his back as he barks orders near the waterslide.
"Listen up! The private party starts soon. The slide is already running. The mayor's daughter is here—she's eighteen, undergoing a transmasculine transition. I want everyone to be gender aware. That council code book you were all given to read. This is high-profile."
I stand near the edge of the pool, adjusting my red swimsuit.
My eyes scan the deck, finding Sammie instantly.
She's laughing with a group of guests, her olive skin glowing, her red swimsuit hugging her curves.
She looks like she belongs on a magazine cover or leading a parade.
Sunday's girl is bonny, carefree, openly gay.
The doubt creeps in, cold and slimy. Maybe Sammie's Sunday girl wasn't a challenge for me. Maybe she was talking about someone else.
Someone who actually is those things.
Someone who doesn't hide in carparks and panic at the sight of balloons.
Before I can retreat to the tower chair and drown in my own head, Sammie is there.
She breezes past Kevin, ignoring his leering stare, and stops right in front of me. She takes my hand, interlacing our fingers firmly, her palm warm and dry against mine.
"Breathe, Billie," she murmurs, her eyes dancing.
Then she leans in and kisses me. Right there. In front of the mayor, the guests, the staff, and the morning sun.
Her lips are soft, tasting of cherry lip balm, lingering just a second too long to be friendly.
She pulls back, grinning, and swings our joined hands between us like we're walking down the boardwalk, not patrolling a municipal pool.
My heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped rabbit.
I wait for the shouting, the pointing, the sky to fall.
It doesn't.
Mrs Henderson, in old-fashioned floral, waves at us from the catering table.
"Congratulations, girls!" she calls out, her voice carrying over the rainbow cupcakes.
"Lovely to see young love. I burned my bra in the sixties, you know! Love is love!"
Kyle, bouncing on the balls of his feet near the cola machine, takes a long sip.
He looks at us, then rolls his eyes playfully.
"Lighten up, Billie. You look like you've seen a ghost. My sister is some pansexual something-or-other. It's the new normal. Just be happy, yeah?"
Even Kevin lumbers past, adjusting the straining fabric of his Speedos with a sweaty hand.
He smirks, gesturing to the obvious bulge.
"If you girls change your mind," he leers, "my Speedos are packing it."
Sammie squeezes my hand, grounding me, anchoring me to the spot.
The world doesn't collapse. It just keeps spinning, louder and gayer than before, and somehow, I'm still standing in the centre of it.
The party passes in a blur of splashing water and rainbow streamers.
By Sunday afternoon, the adrenaline has faded into a warm, exhausted hum.
I drive Sammie to my house, my hands sweating on the steering wheel.
"Mum," I say as we walk into the living room, the air smelling of lemon polish and Sunday roast.
"This is Sammie."
Mum puts down her book. She stands up, smoothing her skirt, her eyes sharp as they flick over Sammie's casual top and confident posture.
"A pleasure," she says, her tone formal, polite, but measuring.
"Billie's never brought a colleague home before."
Sammie flashes her most charming smile.
"Billie's told me so much about you, Mrs...."
We escape to my room as soon as the pleasantries allow.
The door clicks shut, cutting off the low hum of the television and Mum's watchful gaze.
I turn, and Sammie is already there, backing me up against the wall.
"Sunday's girl," she whispers against my neck, her hands finding the hem of my shirt and sliding underneath, fingers hot against my skin.
"You."
We tumble onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and desperation. Clothes are shed in a frantic rush—knickers thrown; tops pulled over heads—until we are skin seeking skin.
Sammie guides me with firm hands until we are aligned in a sixty-nine, her thighs bracketing my head, her private butterfly winglets hovering just inches from my mouth.
I pull her down, burying my face in her pussy.
She's wet, hot, and tastes like salt and pure desire.
I lick a long, slow stripe up her slit, circling her clit with the flat of my tongue, feeling the hard nub twitch under my attention.
My tongue flicks, her clitty twitches.
My tongue laps, her bead throbs.
"Ooohhh! Ooohhh! Mmm, Sunday girl! Aahh! Oohh!"
Sammie moans, the vibration travelling through her body and onto my skin as she lowers her head to mine.
Her tongue is magic, flicking and sucking with a rhythm that makes my toes curl. Makes my tongue flick into her slit with purposeful vigour.
I grind my hips up against her face, seeking more pressure, more friction, desperate for her to fill me up.
"Sammie," I gasp into her folds, my voice muffled and broken.
She responds by gripping my thighs, pulling me closer, and devouring me.
We are a feedback loop of pleasure—every lick I give her makes her moan; every moan she makes vibrates against my clit.
It's saliva-drenched yet perfect.
I suck and lick her clit. Suck, lick, suck, lick.
Complete, dutiful, captivated attention to her polished pink bead.
Kowtowing my tongue to her natural, sensitive wonder.
Flattering its edges. Cajoling its underside. Wooing its head to rigidly defy and throw back its protective cowl.
Persuading her glossy pink pearl to dance with my tongue.
I lash her nub with swipes and twists. Then the circles. The rings around her lustrous orb. Spirals and curls, edging, edging, the rising bliss from her bud.
The sisterhood of touch, my tongue, her clit.
The absolute clarity of the moment as her crunch-time approaches. Her body climbs to the peak. Her private flower launches to an immediate bloom. Her crowning bodily acme.
I feel her thighs tighten around my head, squeezing me in an uncontrolled but compelling grip.
Her pinnacle spotlights between her shaking thighs.
She doubles her efforts, her tongue regularly in my hole, her nose rubbing against my nub with every thrust.
The orgasm builds low in my belly, a rolling internal wave I can't stop.
"Oorggh!"
I cry out, my body arching off the mattress as I cum.
Sammie follows moments later, her juices flooding my mouth as she shudders above me, her body convulsing in my arms.
"Aahhh!"
She shifts, turning around to curl into my side, resting her head on my chest, her hair tickling my chin, her breathing slowing.
"Sunday's girl," she whispers again, sleepy and sated, her hand tracing lazy circles of eight around my outie navel.
I wrap my arm around her, holding her tight against the fading light of the day.
"Yes, I'm a Sunday girl. For every day of the week. Bonny, carefree, openly gay."
I press her innie navel.
"Stay for dinner. I'll start by telling my mum."