Dear Diary 1977

And then it was over. The basement dissolved the way dreams did when your body finally decided it had had enough. It was not gradually. It was not gently, but all at once. It was like a hand wiping condensation from a mirror. Kristy, her father, the stone walls, the swinging bulb, the cold basement all gone. Jennifer surfaced into realization with a sharp inhale, her hand clutching at sheets that were damp with sweat, her heart doing the particular frantic thing it did when the body woke before the mind had finished processing what the mind had just been through. She lay there for a long moment in the dark, breathing, waiting for the pieces of herself to reassemble.

Just a dream. The words arrived with the automatic. It was almost insulting ease of something her brain kept on standby for exactly these occasions. She pressed her palm flat against her sternum and felt her heartbeat gradually slow beneath it, felt the sweat cooling on her skin, felt the specific, ordinary weight of her own body against the mattress. It was real. It was solid. She repeated the words until the rest of her started to believe them. Just a dream. The basement wasn't real. The door wasn't real. She was awake. She was certain of it. However, she was wrong.

The fog arrived without warning, seeping in at the edges of the room the way smoke did under a closed door. It was slow at first, almost imperceptible, and then everywhere at once. The ceiling above her softened. The walls lost their corners. She blinked and the act of blinking felt strange, too deliberate, like something she was doing manually rather than something her body simply did on its own. She tried to sit up, and the room tilted in that slow, unhurried way that had nothing to do with the effort of moving and everything to do with the fact that the room was no longer entirely committed to being a room.

A dizziness that wasn't quite dizziness. It felt like it was being caught between two frequencies. However, it was not fully present either. Her signal was cutting in and out of something she didn't have a name for. She thought, very clearly and very calmly, in the last moment before the fog took the thought away. I am not awake. And then she was somewhere else.

The smell hit her before anything else happened. Damp towels and industrial soap and the faint, inexplicable ghost of chlorine that had always seeped over from the aquatics center next door through the ventilation system that nobody had ever bothered to fix. Jennifer knew that smell the way she knew her own heartbeat. It was not from memory but from somewhere deeper than memory. It was some place in the body that stored certain things without being asked to, that kept them safe and whole long after the mind had moved on to other business.

The University of Virginia women's locker room. Exact and entire and impossibly, heartbreakingly real. It was all there. The long rows of olive green metal lockers running the length of the room in two facing banks, their paint chipped at the corners where a thousand athletic bags had been swung against them over the years with the casual violence of people who had somewhere more important to be.

Combination locks hanging open on the permanently claimed ones, left unlocked between sessions out of the comfortable assumption that nobody here took what wasn't theirs. The floor beneath her feet was the same. The pale grey and perpetually slightly damp, cold enough to make you walk on the balls of your toes in an unconscious, reflexive hurry. She was doing it now without having decided to.

The long wooden benches between the locker rows were scarred with years of use. Their surfaces soft and darkened in the middle where countless athletes had sat to pull on spikes and tape ankles and have the quiet, focused conversations that only happened in that particular pre-competition silence. When adrenaline made everyone either very loud or very still and there was no middle ground. You always knew which kind of person you were by which way you went. Jennifer had always gone still. She had forgotten that about herself until just now.

The showers were running somewhere behind the tiled wall at the far end, their sound a constant low percussion beneath everything else, hollow and cathedral-like the way shower rooms always were. Someone had left a bottle of Herbal Essences on the nearest bench, its green cap open, and the smell of it cut through everything else with a precision that made Jennifer's chest ache. The smell of that specific green-apple sweetness that she hadn't smelled in years and that now, here, in this impossible place, was so present and so exact that it felt less like a memory and more like a wound.

On the wall above the lockers the cork bulletin board still held its curling layer of meet schedules and sign-up sheets, and the photograph of last season's relay team was still pinned at the crooked angle that had bothered her every single time she'd walked past it. A pair of forgotten track spikes hung by their laces from a locker handle near the end of the row, swinging faintly in some draft she couldn't locate, their metal tips catching the fluorescent light in small periodic flashes.

She had been so fast here. She had been so certain. She had been a version of herself that moved through the world like she had a right to it, like the ground would hold, like the next thing was always going to be as good as the last thing or better. She hadn't known that was what she was, then. She had taken it completely for granted. She was still standing there, inside that particular grief, when she heard it.

A sound from behind the far row of lockers. It was subtle enough that someone not paying attention would have missed it entirely. A shift of weight. The soft compression of the wooden bench takes on the specific pressure of a body. She moved toward it the way she always moved toward things she both needed and dreaded knowing. Slowly, and without stopping, her footsteps quiet on the damp concrete.

She came around the end of the locker row. And there was her friend Kristy. The cold wood of the bench pressed against Kristy's naked spine. It was a stark contrast to the humid air of the room. Her arms were strained behind her, the sharp bite of the steel cuffs digging into her wrists as they locked her to the bench's support structure. Kristy Blair was utterly immobilized, a sacrifice laid out on an altar of polished wood and unforgiving iron. Her legs, however, were free, draped over the sides of the bench, her feet barely brushing the floor. This freedom was no mercy. It was a calculated vulnerability, leaving her most intimate core completely exposed to the two women who stood over her.

Jennifer was the first to move. She was all predatory grace. Her body was lean and corded with muscle. She knelt between Kristy's splayed thighs. Jennifer Meininger’s piercing ice blue eyes were pools of hunger that devoured the sight before her. Beside her, the other woman remained standing for a moment, a figure of breathtaking, almost ethereal beauty. Her face was a perfect oval. They were framed by waves of dark hair, and her eyes, a startling shade of amber, held a chilling, analytical curiosity. She was a collector of rare experiences, and Kristy was her latest, most fascinating specimen.

"She's perfect," Jennifer breathed.

Jennifer’s voice was a low rumble that vibrated through Kristy's bones. She leaned in, not with a kiss, but with an open-mouthed inhale, as if she could taste Kristy's scent from the air alone.

"And she smells delicious." Jennier said.

The beautiful woman finally knelt, mirroring Jennifer's position.

"Let's see if she tastes as good as she smells," she said.

The woman’s voice was softer, but somehow more menacing than Jennifer's raw hunger. The first touch was a shock. Jennifer's tongue, hot and wet, laved a broad, possessive stripe over Kristy's outer folds. A shudder wracked Kristy's body, a traitorous response of pleasure that she tried to suppress. Then came the pain. Jennifer's teeth followed, sharp incisors scraping delicately but with unmistakable intent against the sensitive flesh. Kristy cried out, a sharp, startled sound that was equal parts pleasure and protest. Her hips thrashed violently, but there was nowhere to go. The beautiful woman watched Kristy's face, a faint, cruel smile playing on her lips.

"Your friend likes that," she observed.

The woman leaned in herself. Her touch was different. It was precise and almost clinical. She used the very tip of her tongue to trace the intricate folds, mapping Kristy's anatomy with terrifying accuracy. Then, she too, used her teeth. A gentle, deliberate nip right on the edge of Kristy's inner labia, just enough to send a jolt of sharp, exquisite pain through her. Kristy's moan was a broken thing.

"Please stop," Kristy gasped.

The word was torn from her throat. She didn't know if she was begging them to stop or to continue. The lines were already blurring into a haze of overwhelming sensation.

"Don't listen to her," Jennifer said.

Misunderstanding or, more likely, ignoring the plea.

"We're going to taste every single inch of you." Jennifer said.

The scent of arousal filled room. Jennifer and the beautiful woman ceased their verbal games, their shared focus locking onto the prize before them. They descended upon Kristy. The sound of wet, noisy slurping filled the room. Jennifer moved first. Her tongue plunged deep and lapped hungrily at the glistening folds. It coaxed more juices from Kristy's trembling body. The beautiful woman was close behind, her movements more precise, aiming for the most sensitive nerves. As they both dipped their heads lower, the conflict began. Jennifer’s hunger drove her to press her face harder against the center of Kristy’s pleasure, but the woman was insistent, driven by a need to dominate the act.

With a sudden, clumsy maneuver, the woman’s right cheek slammed hard against Jennifer’s left. It was a collision of bones and flesh, a wet smack that echoed through the locker room. The impact forced them into a tight, messy tangle of hair and faces. They rubbed together, cheek-to-cheek, their noses brushing and lips pressing unintentionally against Kristy's open vagina as they fought for the best angle to feast. Jennifer moaned, while the beautiful woman gritted her teeth, her eyes flashing with dominance, their opposing pressures creating a friction that was as aggressive as it was erotic, both women determined to lap at Kristy’s open pussy.

It was a symphony of coordinated torment. Jennifer would use her broad, strong tongue to lap and suck, coating Kristy’s vagina in a thick layer of saliva, while the beautiful woman would follow with precise, targeted flicks and nips. They took turns, one holding Kristy's labia wide with her fingers, exposing the tender, pink flesh within, while the other feasted. The wet, sucking sounds were obscene, echoing in the quiet room, mingling with Kristy's increasingly desperate moans.

"You're right," the beautiful woman said.

She pulled her face back for a moment, her chin glistening.

"She is delicious. Salty, sweet... with a hint of fear." She licked her lips slowly, her amber eyes never leaving Kristy's beautiful pussy.

"Let's get a better look," Jennifer said.

Her voice was soft with a dark satisfaction. This was the moment the process truly began. Jennifer shifted her position, her expression one of intense concentration. She placed her thumbs on either side of Kristy's pussy, pressing against the soft, yielding tissue. The pressure was immense, a steady, unyielding force that demanded surrender. Kristy felt a burning stretch.

Kristy's outer lips were flushed a deep red, puffing outward from the aggressive stretching, trembling violently as Jennifer's thumbs held them wide. Inside, the delicate folds were engorged and slick, glistening with a mixture of her own juices and the women's saliva. The inner labia were a pale pink. The opening itself was gaping wide. It was like wet pink mouth gasping for air. The clitoris was swollen and hard.

"Look at that," Jennifer muttered.

Her gaze was fixed on her work.

"She's fighting it, but her body wants to open for us." Jennifer said

With a concerted push, Kristy's muscles gave way. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as the first significant stretch sent a bolt of sensation through her. It was pain, yes, but it was laced with a dark, twisted pleasure, a feeling of being so utterly possessed. A bead of her own clear arousal escaped, trickling down to meet the saliva that already coated her. The beautiful woman leaned in close, her hair brushing against Kristy's inner thighs, creating a tickling, maddening contrast to the intense stretching. Her breath was warm against Kristy's exposed flesh.

"I want to bite her pussy," she whispered.

Her voice was filled with lust.

"I want to make her scream." She said.

Jennifer maintained the stretch, her knuckles white with the effort.

"Hold her open for me," she commanded.

The beautiful woman complied, replacing Jennifer's thumbs with her own long, elegant fingers. Her touch was firm and confident, pulling Kristy’s pussy lips wider, creating an opening that felt gaping. Kristy felt a wave of faintness, a dizzying sense of being turned inside out. She was no longer a person, but an object of intense, focused study.

Now it was the beautiful woman's turn to explore. She used three fingers of her other hand, not to stretch further, but to probe. She traced the rim of the opening she had created, her touch feather-light, then dipped just inside, feeling the texture of the first inner ring of muscle. Kristy whimpered, the sensation of being held so open while being so delicately touched was maddening.

The beautiful woman’s long fingers were sleek and pale. It contrasted starkly against the blushing labia. She didn’t simply hold her open; she toyed with the now-gaping vagina, her index finger trailing a slow, deliberate path along the wet, creased seam. She used the pad of her thumb to press against the exposed, throbbing clitoris, circling it with agonizing slowness while her other fingers dug into the softness of the labia, pinching and pulling the skin outward to keep the interior on display.

She slipped a single finger inside, curling it upward immediately to press against that sensitive walls. The wet suction sound was lewd and loud in the locker room as she worked her finger in and out, testing the stretch, while her other hand manipulated the outer lips.

"I can see deeper now," the beautiful woman breathed.

Her face was so close Kristy could feel the heat from her cheeks.

"The color is incredible. It's like a rose blooming in reverse." She said.

Jennifer, momentarily displaced, watched with rapt attention.

"Taste her again. Taste her while she's open." Jennifer commanded.

The woman needed no further encouragement. She leaned in and, with the flat of her tongue, laved the entire exposed area. The texture of her tongue against the hyper-sensitive, stretched tissues was a whole new world of sensation. Kristy cried out, her back arching off the bench, pulling hard against the cuffs. The metal bit deeper, a grounding point of pain in a sea of overwhelming pleasure.

The woman didn’t break the rhythm. She threw her entire weight into the task. Her tongue became a piston, plunging in and out with a wet, tearing force that splashed against Kristy’s cervix. Each withdrawal was accompanied by a loud, obscene slurping sound as the suction pulled at the stretched walls, and each deep thrust was accompanied by a grunt of effort from the woman as she swallowed the air around them.

She then locked her tongue in place at the very entrance of her vagina. Kristy felt the sudden, blunt pressure of the hard muscle pressing inward, not entering, but blocking the exit, creating a suction seal. Then, the woman began to rotate her tongue with a slow, deliberate, and cruel precision. She pressed the thick, flat muscle outward against the inner walls, making wide, concentric circles that spun around the opening. She spun her tongue clockwise, then reversed, spinning counterclockwise, creating a grinding, swirling friction that rubbed against every sensitive nerve ending inside.

She repeated the motion endlessly, a wet, twisting drill that churned Kristy’s insides and made the walls flutter and spasm against her tongue. The tongue’s movements sent shockwaves of pleasure through Kristy’s body.

The woman abruptly lifted her head, breaking the suction with a wet, popping sound that echoed in the locker room. Kristy gasped, a flood of her own fluids gushing from her exposed pussy as the air hit the hyper-sensitized skin. The beautiful woman didn't waste a moment. Her long, elegant fingers replaced her mouth, pressing roughly into the gaping pussy. She thrust two fingers deep, knuckles deep, stretching the entrance even further. Her hand moved in a rapid, aggressive rhythm, thumbing the swollen clit with every other thrust, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the air as she pummeled the opening into a frenzy of writhing flesh.

They worked together now, a seamless team of tormentors. Jennifer would use her strong fingers to pull Kristy's outer labia back, away from the center, while the beautiful woman would use her fingers to stretch the entrance itself. Their goal was clear, unspoken. To gape Kristy’s pussy as wide as humanly possible, to see every secret she held.

"More," Jennifer said.

Her voice was strained with effort. She added her own fingers to the mix, her hands joining the beautiful woman's. Four hands, eight fingers, all working in concert to pry Kristy open. The stretch was immense, a deep, burning ache that bordered on agony. Kristy's moans were now constant, a pained, pleading sound that only seemed to spur them on.

"Look how beautiful her insides are," the beautiful woman said.

They both leaned in, their faces inches from Kristy’s gaping pussy, their eyes wide with fascination. They had achieved their goal. Kristy was laid completely bare, her innermost self-exposed to their hungry gazes. The feeling was indescribable. It was a profound violation, a complete surrender, and a dark, shameful thrill all at once.