Native Tongue is a collection of six short stories of lesbian lust, compiled by award-winning author Shanna Germain. From the title story, in which a translator in Costa Rica discovers that her perfect lover may not be so perfect after all to a long-time girl crush that's consummated over black tea and henna, the six hot, sensual stories in this collection are sure to please and arouse...
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EXCERPT:
There, on the skin over and between her shoulder blades, a dozen snowflakes tattooed in white ink. Each one different, each one as small as my pinkie nail. I got down on my knees before her small back and put my finger over each one. When I touched them, I thought they would feel cold, but they didn’t; they just felt like skin. I ran my tongue over them, each one, and thought they tasted like snow, clean and pure, the kind that you catch coming down from the sky.
“More,” Dakota said, when I stopped. Her voice came from over her shoulder, far away.
I tasted her back until my mouth felt like I’d been sucking icicles. Until she shivered and took my hand round the front of her. Even then, I tasted her skin with my fingers, letting them lick the warm-cool skin that was her belly and below her belly. Her hair was shaved short. My fingers played at the folds of her and she pushed the curves of her ass against my body. Her snowflaked back met my chest.
Her breathing was as heavy as it had been on the beach, when she’d first sat down on my chair. Other than that, she was quiet until she said, “What’s your name?”
My fingers played at the folds of her. “What?”
“I have to moan something,” she said. Was it the first time I’d heard her laugh? It must have been, but somehow it was as though I’d heard it a million times. “I can’t just say, ‘oh, oh, oh.’”
I’d never wished for a great name before, but I did now. “Joan.”
“Touch me again, Joan,” she said.
I did, entering two fingers inside her to find her wet and cool. And then I pulled my fingers out and found her clit. I made it wet with her own fluid and started circling the hard point of it.
“Joan,” she said. But it didn’t sound like my name ever had before. The way she breathed it, the way she moaned it, it sounded like join and then poem and then own. The fifth time or maybe the six, it sounded like joy.
She rolled over slow, so my fingers stayed on her, until she was facing me. Her tongue across my lips was a child licking her first popsicle. Just the tip, then, pressed between my lips until they opened and let her in. She brushed her knuckles across each of my nipples in turn, until my back arched and I was trying to make words in her mouth. I wanted to say her name back, to make it into something else, but I couldn’t with her tongue on mine, all spongy and sweet.
Dakota’s still-cool fingers tucked in the space between my legs, spread my thighs. She touched so light at first that it was nothing, snowflakes that melted instantly on my skin, and pushed my hips forward until she entered me. Her fingers brought their coolness inside, but it didn’t last. It was too hot—I was too hot—and I rode her hard, until I was so wet that I swore her fingers had melted in me. She pulled her fingers out and I was surprised that they were still there, still fingers after all. But then she dipped them inside the melted core of me again, and I couldn’t be sure of what I’d seen...
~From "On Snow-White Wings"
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