Page 13 of The Artist's Rival

She feels Ellie’s hand pressuring to get inside of her and she pushes her ass back against it, desperate to take Ellie’s whole hand inside her soaking wet pussy.

She feels the pressure heighten some more, for just a few seconds and she’s not sure she can bare it any longer and then suddenly, relief as her whole hand slides inside.

Fuck.

“Oh god, Yes.” Tatiana knows she is no longer being quiet as Ellie begins to slowly but surely rock Tatiana on her fist.

It feels exquisite and she can feel Ellie’s knuckles pressing her G spot. She knows she is very very close.

Ellie begins to fuck her slow and deep with her whole hand.

“Come on, come now for me, Tatiana.”

“Can I?” she gasps, strained.

The pressure feels just right, insufferably so. Ellie’s hand is like a pump, forcing into her a state of unendurable ecstasy.

“Of course.” Ellie is as smug as ever and even now, Tatiana hates her.

But this, this exquisite fucking, this fisting of her, this takeover of her body; it feels so very very good.

And she does what she’s told, coming hard again and again, her orgasm gushing down the insides of her thighs. She hears herself crying out in ecstasy with Ellie’s hand deep inside.

–

Disentangled, they sit on the bathroom floor in a short-lived silent bliss. Ellie gets up to wash her hands, watching for stains on her dress—fortunate to find none. She begins sliding her gold rings back on. Soon, knocking on the bathroom door interrupts them, reminding them both of the absurdity of their situation.

“Ellie! Are you there? People are looking for you,” Fred shouts through the thick barrier. He’s audibly tipsy, loudly laughing to someone else.

“Yes! I’m coming,” Ellie quickly fixes herself in the mirror and rushes out of the bathroom. She doesn’t cast even a glance in Tatiana’s direction, only clutching her purse close.

Tatiana is left standing next to the stall, confused about what just happened. She washes her face, trying to grasp that the encounter was real, attempting to mute the little fluttering of her heart at the thought of Ellie’s hands. The conversation clearly failed, not making their relationship any less convoluted. She feels the now-cold wet lace in between her thighs.

What the fuck, she thinks, picking up her things and looking for an excuse to tell everyone in order to avoid the afterparty. She drinks some of the tap water and leaves the bathroom. The crowd engulfs her, and the ruby walls seem suffocating. Home is calling.

Her car stands loyally where she left it, for once easy to find. She throws her purse inside and takes the seat, still in a state of cluttered disbelief. In a bathroom stall, she shakes her head, thinking back to high school. She turns on the radio and lets it drown out her tangled thoughts. Soon, her mind seems to enter a quiet sort of flow induced by the monotony of driving and the radio hosts’ voices. She lets her mind roam free, sometimes memories or observations resurface, causing her to smirk, then pause, then smirk again.

I can still feel her hand inside of me.

6

ELLIE

The softness kissing Ellie’s forehead refuses to let her slip away from dreams. Her mind feels hot and gooey, sticky fragments of thoughts intertwined with dreams mill around her head. Dreary clouds, hanging heavy outside the window, dim all morning light. This cloud-induced sleepy atmosphere in the room ties her to the bed even further. She twists her head left to right, slowly making peace with the need to face the day’s reality. Getting up has never been her strength, especially after difficult nights.

Brushing her teeth, Ellie plays the memory of sex with Tatiana Khan over and over again, like a washing machine inept at its job. The memory becomes no less dirty, no less confusing, no less intimidating. She spits the toothpaste out into the sink, creating a nasty stain.

What the fuck, she thinks, remembering the bathroom stall.

For breakfast, she decides to make a three-egg omelette with spinach and garlic, her sister’s favorite morning dish. When life presents her with difficult situations, she resorts to making easy decisions, choices she can be certain in. This way, she keeps up the sense of control and stability she always craves—and always seems to forsake in her relationships with women. That’s the problem, she thinks, flipping the omelette. She knows what she wants, the mature woman that she is, and she knows what she can give. But somehow, she gets infatuated with these chaotic thunderstorms of women. Margaret…

That memory stings too much, and she gently lets it go.

Sprinkling salt and pepper into the pan, she rewinds the evening to before the intimate act. It’s good. It’s not great, keeps playing in her thoughts, a stinging reality to be confronted with. The overheard conversation with Fred upset Ellie more than anything else Tatiana had said before, upset and angered her at the same time. There was no reason for Ellie to accept Tatiana’s authority regarding anything. Especially because Tatiana’s art itself was not to Ellie’s liking, she repeated this idea to herself to no avail.

Sitting down to have her breakfast, she resolves to at last visit Tatiana’s exhibition before going to meet her father. She has been looking forward to seeing him for weeks now, their phone calls sparse and unfulfilling. His health is not the best either, she has recently learned.

Circling back to Tatiana, she supposes that giving her art a fair chance seems a reasonable thing to do. Perhaps the paintings look better live. But truth be told, she doesn’t even want to like them anymore—she grew comfortable in her line of critique. The thought of the landscapes upsets her, even.

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