Sweet eighteen, first time lesbian gymnasts
I was watching Rachel as closely as you can watch another person. Her sure body movement. Her grace. Her lines. Her concentration.
Rachel's quick, sure transfer between the lower bar and the high bar and vice versa, her sure grip for such elegant, thin, petite fingers as they manoeuvred to a new hold, and fine chalky powdered flakes puffing and dissipating like dust particles in the sunlight because sweaty palms or too much moisture can create a loose grip and result in errors or the dreaded fall.
Rachel did the sweeping, complete body rotations, getting ready for her handstand. It's all about supple athleticism and aesthetics. Then, it's the perfect grip, holding the moment.
Stability is all.
It was her handstand that had me mesmerised. She nailed it. Her arms and legs were so straight, and the forward point of her toes was —
Bodily balance.
The body is beautiful in form and line.
But it was sexual perving that aroused me from god knows where. I was checking out my teammate's curvy, naturally padded fem-mound between her legs.
She wasn't wearing her more revealing competition leotard. The one we all double-shave the night before we put it on. They are right on the cusp of being too high-cut. Nearly, but not.
The cunning bastard designers must put tape measures, rulers, tailor squares and cute little pins not on mannequins but real shaved Brazilian waxed models to get the perfect line between performance acceptable and stage show erotic.
Still, her training blue leotards were high cut as per usual, and I was looking at the cute curves at the tops of her thighs —peeking securely —Rachel held momentarily in her handstand.
The light blue leotard accentuated the graceful lines of her body…you see her symmetry, the full feminine curves … it's very erotic and sensually rousing. More so than the matter of fact human hard-wired breast or genital glance that occurs in the change rooms —her unclothed body, your naked body and other various states of teammates undress — it's just a girl's frickin change room after all —full of well; we think; hetero focussed girls.
What's changed so suddenly?
I know her naked form like she knows mine.
Glanced at and taken in, no surprises.
Equally, our leotards don't hide your breast shape, and the change rooms reveal what is obvious, a room full of shaved female genitals.Awareness, yes, arousing no.
We would all rather be in the guy's change rooms sucking off dick.
God, we check out each other's butts and shave lines all the time in mutual full scrutiny reassurance. Clinical inspections like how gynaecologists we assume are supposed to operate. We concentrate our eyes on butt creep or stubble for each other because the focus is our skill on the bars, not supposedly our front crevice or back crack.
We are in fear of the competition performance routine leotard creeping into your crack and revealing too much.
Even the rule book has a 0.5 deduction for flicking your leotard back into place.
It is all a myth, though, and girly fear.
The reality is a suitable leotard just fits snug and tight.
No panties are needed.
No creep, unlike the perving male creeps in the audience who are supposedly here to see our skills.
But we shave everything because of the fear of what —looking like a woman actually naturally should look like — trapped by the leotard design of men.
It is a competitive sport, yet we are judged by our bodily presentation.
So we play by the unwritten rules of leotard shaving and use either spray adhesive, butt glue, a liquid adhesive or sticky double-sided adhesive tape to keep our leotards in place.
Plenty of bastards are making us part with our money — because of the — What If mentality.
But then, if we all performed naked, no one would watch our routine. So we perform in sexually provocative male eye-drawing leotards, supposedly designed to free our legs for complex manoeuvres.
Yeah, it's still a man's world in too many ways.
However, we are talking about my pervy nano thoughts here in a routine about to finish after sixty to seventy seconds with Rachel's dismount. I'm through my lustful instance. I'm concentrating on her dismount. The part where a miscue could mean ankle damage and weeks out of training or missing the next competition.
Rachel's swing-off is the personal bit, the flourish for the judges, and the big points if you stick it or the despair of taking one and, god forbid, any extra steps to keep your balance.
I had done my landing earlier with one small irritating step under Rachel's supportive eyes.
Geez, I wondered if she had perved on my crotch in my handstand.
I don't think anyone looks at my joy box, not even Coach Rogers, who had to leave early and left us to finish off together.
The idea is to stick to the mat.
You have no idea how frickin hard it is unless you do the bars yourself.
Try to keep your body straight and flip like a domino from end to end in fractions of seconds, and keep your feet together as your arms stretch out.
Rachel looks good, high and straight, maybe a fraction high; yes, she going to hurt herself if I don't support her —
I steady her descent —from falling and twisting her legs — she's pressing her body —her breasts actually crush excitedly against mine.
I feel a tingle through my crotch.
"Thanks, honey — I got too high," she gets out with a pant and a sigh of failure at not nailing her landing.
But she sees the look in my eyes.
I'm still in her space.
I can see the sweat beads on her temple and the corner of her nose. I can feel her warm breath. Her lips are so close to mine.
Rachel doesn't move out of my space, either. Her chalk-covered hands move up and hold my face, which has a dry powderish feel but is underlaid with tenderness.
Her brown eyes, as liquid pools, merge into my blueness and vice versa. She kisses me, but I react similarly.
Our tongues instantly approve of each other.
They corroborate lust.
Lips emphasise the need for touch.
They indicate everything is permissible right here and right now.
I reach behind her and release her coiled hair. It flows and floats around her shoulders.
Rachel's hands are on my butt, pushing my pubic zone into hers at an angle.
Leotard to leotard.
Blue svelte spandex sliding over pink smooth lycra.
A pre-taste of flesh to flesh.
Luckily, we were doing extra training alone — if Coach Rogers came back?
Well, I suppose we would have invited his cock to join us, and he would, as eighteen is behind us.
Leotards, so much work to ensure they stay in place, yet so easily pushed to the side by mutually exploring fingers.
We kept kissing, and the lip-locking was intense because our fingers were mesmerised by girly moisture.
To give pleasure was the intent.
Yet we went about it in different ways.
Rachel had her finger fondling in and out of my pussy. I was sliding her wetness repeatedly up to her hard clit.
Different action, same outcome, slits galvanised for action. Stirred for receiving even more delight.
We were girls, though, and wanted to initiate each other into the softness of each other's breasts and hard pink nipples.
We were dropping each other's leotards from our shoulders to our waists. Youthful forms were exposed as they often were in the changing rooms, but this instance had closeness; this moment had a sensuous touch.
Eyes were invited to linger.
Fingers were allowed to explore and define the shape and illicit tingly happy responses from flicked and suckled nipples.
But I wanted her pussy, and equally, Rachel wanted mine.
We were back in the prime pleasure zone.
Fingers flush with moisture.
Clits building a spree of spreading girly pleasure.
All our senses were entertained by each other's needy, needy bodies.
"Geez, you are wet, Sammie…you really are frickin wet," said Rachel as she works her fingers deeper into me.
There only remained our private cleft flesh to be exposed for tongues, and we took it together, sinking down rapidly onto the gym floor mats in front of the uneven bars.
Spooning into a side on sixty-nine.
Eyes, fingers, tongues, and noses were where they don't get to go as often as we would like.
Here, we were revealed in our natural sweet form to each other. Strikingly, uniquely shaped uneven pieces of flesh that signal here is the equipment of another human being's earthly happiness and sexual fulfilment.
Our uneven perfection.
Rachel's pussy mirrors my pussy.
I know what it will respond to.
I do, and I don't.
Her pink crinkled flapettes dazzle my senses momentarily, but then my tongue and fingers take over, and Rachel, after her perusal of my girly self, is flexing her tongue everywhere that really counts.
I surrender to her ravishing, sweetly given, inciting touch.
"Mmm, mmm, mmm," I moan between lapping her girly jus.
My tongue, in turn, slams into her pussy avidly. I want her to wriggle and squirm with pleasure and squeeze her shapely thighs around my head.
Rachel coos, "Aah, aah, aah!"
I scrunch her crinkly wedges of pink flesh between my lips.
My sweeping tongue accidentally rims her arsehole, but she moans with a soft pleasurable response, and I linger there.
"Ooh, that's nice! Ooh, ooh!"
My hands squeeze open her fetching butt cheeks, and my tongue is prodding into her crack.
She likes it. I think I like it even more.
Rachel finds my butt crack with equal enthusiasm. Her finger rims and pokes subtly.
We feel those plough lines of rilled skin under our fingertips as we feel around each other's shapely rear ends. Plus, the track line of our butt glue is so similar in texture and looks like dried glue on our fingers to children. It is us but not us.
We are perfectly imperfect.
We both prefer the softer flesh and knead it.
I lose focus, though, as Rachel's tongue hits my clit with repeated jabs. Nudging her face fully between my legs.
"Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!"
For a moment, I can't lick her; the shardy spikes of joy are so intense.
We are a jostle of bodies. We are girls hitting now only on each other's clits.
We both know where the centre of the universe really resides.
Our tongues ram and thrust into our pleasure nubs like a cock thrusting into our cunts.
This is tongues surely hustling for pleasure.
There is pressure.
There is friction.
There is the beauty of raunchy speed over sensitive bulbous erectness. There is our joint race to orgasm.
"Oorrgh, ugh!"
"Ugh, Oorrgh!"
Memory melds our cries together!
Rachel squeezes my head between her legs as I desire.
Her response is hers but mine to unleash.
She can't sustain her work on my clit; she is powerless in the face of her sweeping deep delight.
She moans loudly.
Rachel looks sated as she rises.
I look tenderly into her eyes as she guides me above her. Urging me to sit over her face.
Her tongue surfs my pussy, then aims for my crest, my swollen clit.
My long hair is flouncing, my tits are bouncing, and my body is rebounding up and down as her tongue delves cavernously into my lush spit-filled pussy and then deliciously, she sucks my clithood entirely into her mouth.
"Aagghh! Aahhh!"
I cum effusively.
Nothing restrains my wonder for Rachel.
Here was our true performance of the day.
We all seek perfection in work, sport, cooking a meal, hobbies, renovations, or that impossible shaved perfection between pubic hair bulbs and leotard stretch.
Rachel and I were always in pursuit of perfection in the gym.
It was so hard and often unattainable, and it was full of the pitfalls of multiple disappointments and unfair comparisons with others.
Yet we met our true human design brief by fulfilling each other's bodies so easily, never doubting once they were given; each other's privately shaped perfection.