The Private Lesson (Part 2)

An exclusive bonus scene from The Straight Girl Bet
by Blair Lennox

Ashley pushed Morgan backward across the court. Morgan went — not reluctantly, not submissively, but with the particular willingness of a woman who had spent forty minutes maintaining iron self-control and was ready to give it up.

The umpire’s chair sat at the side of the court — a tall wooden referee’s seat with a narrow step and a higher platform. It served no purpose during private play except, apparently, as a surface that Ashley had been eyeing since she’d realized what tonight was about.

“Sit,” Ashley said.

Morgan looked at the chair. Looked at Ashley. Looked at the chair again. “On the umpire’s chair.”

“Sit down, Morgan.”

“This feels like a violation of—”

“Sit. Down.”

Morgan sat on the lower step. The wood was smooth and warm from the evening air, and she gripped the armrest and watched Ashley drop to her knees on the clay in front of her.

The clay was gritty under Ashley’s knees. She didn’t care. She reached for the waistband of Morgan’s shorts and Morgan lifted her hips — automatic, practiced, the body-language of two women who had undressed each other enough times to skip the negotiation — and Ashley pulled her shorts and underwear down and off in one efficient motion.

Morgan was sitting on the umpire’s chair with her legs spread and Ashley between them, and the café lights threw warm amber across Morgan’s skin and the muscles of her thighs and the wet, swollen evidence that forty minutes of restraint had cost her dearly.

“You’re as wet as I was,” Ashley said.

“I had my fingers inside you for five minutes while you made sounds that should be classified as a controlled substance. Yes, I’m wet.”

“I’m going to make it worse.”

“That’s not the threat you think it is.”

Ashley leaned forward and pressed her mouth to Morgan’s inner thigh. Kissed the skin there — soft, slow, working inward by inches while Morgan’s breathing changed above her. She could feel the heat radiating from Morgan’s center before she got there, could smell her arousal — salt and musk and the specific scent that was unique to Morgan and that made Ashley’s mouth water every time.

She kissed the crease of Morgan’s thigh. Morgan’s hand found the back of her head — not pushing, just resting, the familiar gesture that meant I trust you.

Ashley licked a slow line through Morgan’s folds and felt Morgan’s thighs tighten around her head. The taste was sharp and salt and devastating, and Ashley closed her eyes and committed to it with the focused intensity of a woman who had spent six years competing against this body and now had the privilege of taking it apart.

She used her tongue with patience and precision — circling Morgan’s clit without direct pressure, building the sensation in slow spirals, teasing the edges while Morgan’s hips rocked and her hand tightened in Ashley’s hair.

Morgan’s breathing fractured. Short, sharp exhales. Her free hand gripped the armrest hard enough that Ashley could hear the wood creak.

“Ashley — right there — don’t stop—”

Ashley didn’t stop. She pressed her tongue flat against Morgan’s clit and sucked gently, and Morgan’s hips bucked off the chair. Ashley gripped her thighs and held her steady and added her fingers — two, sliding inside Morgan with a wet, easy glide. She fucked Morgan with her fingers while her mouth worked her clit, and Morgan’s body clenched around her and Morgan said Ashley’s name in pieces — “Ash — oh fuck — Ash—” — and came with a full-body shudder that Ashley felt through her hands, her lips, her tongue, her entire body pressed between Morgan’s legs.

Ashley stayed. She kept her mouth on Morgan through the aftershocks — softer now, lighter, just enough contact to extend the pleasure without tipping into overstimulation. She kissed Morgan’s inner thigh. Rested her cheek against the warm skin and looked up.

Morgan was wrecked. Head tipped back. Eyes closed. Chest heaving. She looked like a woman who had been taken apart by someone who knew exactly where every bolt was.

“Get up here,” Morgan said without opening her eyes.

Ashley climbed into Morgan’s lap. Straddled her on the umpire’s chair step — one knee on either side of Morgan’s hips, the wood narrow enough that her thighs pressed tight against Morgan’s. Face to face. Chest to chest. Mouth to mouth.

Morgan’s eyes opened. Dark. Hungry. Not finished.

“I believe,” Morgan said, sliding her hands under Ashley’s dress, “that the score is one-one.”

“You’re keeping score during sex?”

“I keep score during everything. You know this about me.”

Her hands found Ashley’s bare hips and gripped hard enough that Ashley rocked forward. Morgan’s fingers slid between Ashley’s thighs from the front, and Ashley was still sensitive from the first orgasm and gasped so hard she bit her own lip.

Morgan slid inside her. Two fingers, curling forward, finding the spot that made Ashley’s vision white out at the edges. Her thumb found Ashley’s clit and pressed — not circling, just steady pressure — and Ashley grabbed Morgan’s shoulders and started moving.

She rode Morgan’s hand on the umpire’s chair at the Ardmore Athletic Club, under café lights, on a court where she’d spent six years pretending she didn’t want exactly this. She rode her with competitive intensity — hips rolling, muscles working, chasing the orgasm with the single-minded focus of a woman going for match point.

Morgan watched her. Eyes locked on Ashley’s face, adjusting angle and pressure in real time. Her free hand went to Ashley’s breast through the dress — cupping, squeezing, her thumb finding the nipple through the fabric and rolling it until Ashley arched into the touch.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Morgan said, and the profanity in her voice — Morgan, who almost never swore during sex — shattered something in Ashley’s chest.

“I’m close — Morgan, I’m—”

“Come for me. Right here. On this court. Let them hear you in the parking lot.”

Ashley came. Harder than the first time — deeper, longer, the kind of orgasm that started in her core and radiated outward until her fingers tingled and her toes curled and she was making sounds into Morgan’s neck that weren’t words in any language. Morgan held her through it — fingers still inside, arm locked around her waist, mouth pressed to Ashley’s temple.

She collapsed against Morgan’s chest. They sat tangled on the umpire’s chair, breathing hard, skin slick, the café lights swaying above them.

“We have to clean this chair,” Ashley said into Morgan’s collarbone.

“I brought wipes.”

“You planned for post-coital umpire-chair sanitation.”

“I plan things now. You’re a bad influence.”

But Ashley wasn’t done. She climbed off Morgan’s lap, stood, and held out her hand. Morgan took it and stood — wobbly — and Ashley led her to the bench at the side of the court.

She sat Morgan down. Knelt between her legs again. Morgan’s eyebrows rose.

“Again?”

“I want to hear you say my name again. The way you said it on the chair.”

Ashley used her mouth on Morgan with deliberate slowness this time. Exploratory. Savoring. She traced every fold with her tongue. She kissed Morgan’s thighs, her hip, the sensitive skin below her navel, before returning each time. Morgan’s hand found her hair — gentler now. The grip of a woman who was being worshipped and knew it and was letting herself receive it.

Ashley brought her to the edge slowly. Backed off. Brought her again. Backed off. Morgan’s hips rolled and her breathing became ragged and she said “please” — Morgan Blake said please — and Ashley gave her everything, tongue and lips and fingers together, relentless, and Morgan came with Ashley’s name on her lips like something precious she’d been holding and finally released.

They cleaned the chair. They cleaned the bench. They collected the café lights — Morgan wrapping the strings while Ashley held the other end, both of them half-dressed and grinning like idiots.

“Take me home,” Ashley said.

“Our home.”

“Our home.”

The drive took eighteen minutes. The house was empty and dark and smelled like garlic from last night’s pasta and the jasmine Morgan had planted on the porch.

Morgan locked the door. Ashley was already pulling her toward the stairs.

“Shower first,” Morgan said. “We’re covered in clay dust.”

“Shower together.”

“That’s not a shower. That’s a strategy.”

“It’s both.”

They showered together. What started as legitimate hygiene became something else within approximately forty seconds. Ashley pressed Morgan against the tile wall and kissed her under the water. Morgan’s hands slid down Ashley’s wet body and pulled her close.

Ashley dropped to her knees on the shower floor. The tile was hard and wet and she didn’t care because Morgan was leaning against the wall with water streaming down her chest and her head tipped back. Ashley pressed Morgan’s legs apart and used her mouth on her for the third time that night, and Morgan’s hand slapped against the tile for balance and she came so fast Ashley almost laughed.

“Unfair,” Morgan gasped. “I was already—”

“Primed. I know. That was the strategy.”

Morgan pulled her up and pinned her against the opposite wall and kissed her hard enough that Ashley tasted Morgan on her own lips, the flavors mixing under the water. Morgan’s hand went between Ashley’s legs — no preamble, no buildup — and she pushed two fingers inside Ashley and fucked her against the shower wall with focused aggression.

Ashley came in under two minutes. Morgan’s fingers curling inside her, Morgan’s thumb on her clit, Morgan’s mouth on her neck biting hard enough to leave a mark that would be visible above a collar. Ashley didn’t care. Visibility was the whole point.

The shower ran cold. They stumbled to bed wet and warm and tangled.

“Four,” Ashley said.

“What?”

“That’s four orgasms. On a Tuesday.”

“It’s a Wednesday.”

“I lost track of the day because you fucked me on a tennis court.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

Ashley laughed. Morgan laughed. The sound filled the bedroom and the house and the life they’d built together — a life that smelled like garlic and jasmine and dog hair and sex, a life that was messy and competitive and loud and exactly, precisely, unperformatively theirs.

“I love you,” Ashley said.

“I love you too.”

“Same time next year?”

“Same time every year.”

Morgan kissed her forehead. Ashley closed her eyes.

She thought about a woman in a club bathroom, a year and a half ago, applying forty-five-dollar lip balm with the focus of someone defusing a bomb. That woman had performed a life she didn’t want because she hadn’t yet found the courage to want the one she deserved.

That woman was gone. This one — naked, satisfied, wrapped around the body of a woman who’d taught her that losing could be winning if you lost to the right person — was the one who stayed.

She’d never been happier to lose.

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