cover image copyright Sommer Marsden 2009
Femme Fatale is copyright Sommer Marsden 2009
Content Warning: This is a work of EROTIC fiction with EXPLICIT content. It is
intended for ADULTS ONLY
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Femme
Fatale
By Sommer Marsden
“She is smoking hot,” Rick said elbowing me. He pointed to a tall, statuesque brunette with fishnets and hot-pink skates.
I shook my head. I did not understand the fashion atrocity that was roller derby. On the other hand, the girls were enticing. Like sirens to sailors, I saw the appeal of ripped fishnets and big black belts with rivets, crazy hair and fingerless leather gloves. I saw all of that flying by me while women threw elbows and knees, knocked each other down and high-fived teammates. I saw all of that and I saw freedom. But I also saw beautymost specifically in the girl that Rick seemed so smitten with. “What’s her name?” I breathed.
“Femme Fatale,” he said, rolling his booklet into a tube and then letting it unroll. “They don’t give real names. She’s a looker, though, don’t you think? Almost as hot as my Molly.” He patted my leg and I took his hand. He was lying and we both knew it, but I could play along. But my eyes were on the blurred dark vision of long, pale limbs and cherry red lipstick.
Femme Fatale.
*****
After the derby, he scurried off to get his program signed. He wanted to get the signatures of Mary Little Lamb, Hazardous Material, and Bettie Bang. I looked for only one woman. I had suddenly become a fan. Enamored and in awe of her as she streaked past like she had been born on skates. How she could take an elbow to the eye socket and keep going. How that red thong pushed those fishnets into the spectacular cleft of her ass. I thrilled at how she looked so dangerous and sexy and in control all at once. It was clear. I had a bit of a girl crush.
“What’s your name, Chickie?” She took my program and scrawled her name in lime-green Sharpie. Her fingernails were short and dark red. Chipped like a punk and I marveled at her long thin fingers. She pinned me with a whiskey-colored gaze, bit her bright red lip and smiled. The whole encounter had sent a zap of arousal straight through me. For the first time in my life, a woman had made me wet in the panties. A woman had me shifting from foot to foot like I had to pee. I blushed and I felt it. The heat and fire of embarrassment stained my face all the way up to my hairline.
“Molly. Moll for short.” God. Why had I said that? Moll, for short. What else would a person shorten Molly to? Lly? Ridiculous. I clenched my hands around the program and then realized I didn’t want to crush her penmanship. I released the paper and turned to go.
“Why’re you running, Moll? Marauding Molly. That could be your roller derby name. You're downright edible, sweet thing. You know you could really work a pair of fishnets. I’m thinking red. Red would go good with your skin tone. Your hair is that crazy kind of dirty blonde. Some red highlights, red fishnets, black skates. I could make you a skull skirt. Damn. That would work. A little tiny black skirt with the Jolly Roger on it.” She winked.
My heartbeat had somehow migrated to my throat and I tried to swallow but failed. “Um…I’m not very good on skates.” Plus, I was pretty sure she was joking. She had to be, right?
“We can fix that. If you come practice with me, we’ll work on it. What do you say?”
I opened my mouth and nothing came out. My heart fluttered erratically, and I was shifting from foot to foot again. A hand smoothed up the curve of my back, rested against my bra strap. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Rick asked.
“Femme, this is Rick. Rick, this is Femme.”
She practically ignored him. She flicked him a tiny wave and then returned her smooth whiskey gaze to me. “So, come practice with me. We practice Tuesdays and Thursdays right here. I’ll be here with your skirt. What do you say? We’re down a girl. Taser is out on maternity leave. So, you’d be doing us a favor.”
My husband snickered rudely. “Molly? Roller derby? Oh ,that is rich. She doesn’t have the nerve. No way.”
I turned to him, anger flaring bright in my belly. Then I smiled at Femme. “I’ll be here. Don’t worry. What time?”
“Seven will do,” she said and shocked the hell out of me by leaning in and planting a kiss on my lips. Her mouth tasted like cinnamon.
I couldn’t tell who gasped louder, me or Rick. “We’ll be here,” he breathed.
“No, darling. She’ll be here. No men allowed.”
“Except for me.” The voice came from up high. He seemed to be a giant. Had to be close to seven feet tall. I looked up and tried not to laugh. Dark hair, big blue eyes, a nose that had been broken more than once. Staggeringly handsome and thoroughly imposing. “Mark Marcus. I am the owner of the team.”