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Tart

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Sent to the Roswell Slash Archive November 6, 2000

Title: Tart
Author: Bennie
Characters: I/?
Rating: NC-17 - I think.
Disclaimer: I in no way claim legal ownership of anything Roswell. I'll leave that up to Jason Katims, Melinda Metz, and/or anyone else who, you know, does.
Summary: Isabel makes a great homebody.
Feedback: Well, if you must ... lol. Who am I kidding -- I wasn't even going to put this one out there, until some very nice preliminary feedback stroked the ego!
Author's Note: I love Max, really I do, but I had a moment of revelation during Surprise when I suddenly got the image of him as Isabel's bratty little brother, and decided to go with it. It's all in fun. Also, thanks to Minnie, Debbie and Zoe for their thoughtful comments and encouragement (even if you are inescapably biased, Zoe. And pushy; did I mention pushy?). Further constructive criticism is most welcome! Just be specific. And kind. Email me at: best_bennie@hotmail.com



"Isabel Evans, just where do you think you're going like that?"

Isabel sighed; her sly attempt to sneak out of the house had failed. Turning, she dropped her tote bag on the couch and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head.

"Mom," she started, eyes wide and innocent, but then Max walked in the room and sealed her fate by shrieking like a little girl.

She winced, disgusted that her own brother could be such a prude.

She hadn't the slightest idea how Liz Parker had ever convinced him to do more than hold hands or exchange soulful looks.

Then again, she didn't know what Max saw in sweet, boring little Liz Parker, either.

Holding up one hand to silence her sputtering brother and using the other to pull her admittedly short and sheer wrap around her, she sighed and sat down under her mother's watchful eye.

She knew she wasn't going anywhere. Hell, she'd be lucky to be allowed out of the door any day this week, by the looks of things.

But damn, it was hot out. The community pool was the only relief to be had during one of these merciless New Mexico heat waves.

And she looked good in a bikini. She knew it, everyone knew it. So what was the big deal?

Harangue over, her mother stood expectantly before Isabel, arms crossed and foot tapping.

"Mom," she couldn't help but whine again. "It's so hot ... everyone's going, and they'll all be wearing bathing suits!"

"Not like that one, young lady. And no, not everyone's going ... you, for one, are staying right here until your father and I get back from the Jacobson's dinner party and can discuss appropriate summer attire in some detail."

Isabel sighed. There was no persuading her mother when she was in one of those moods. So she donned a t-shirt and waited glumly until her mother left to meet her father, glaring at Max as he made plans to meet Liz for ice cream - alone. She stuck her tongue out at him as he told Liz with a childish grin that it was nice of her to ask, but no, Isabel wouldn't be joining them. *She* was stuck at home contemplating her soon-to-be-defunct bikini collection.

Finally, alone in the house, she stripped back out of the t-shirt's oppressive confines. Feeling more than a little naughty, she stood in front of the large picture window and studied her reflection.

Gleefully, she appreciated the flawless skin and soft curves held in check - barely - by the tiniest of string bikinis, a sassy little electric blue number that set off her slight tan. Flipping her sun-lightened hair to one side, Isabel struck a sexy pose, running one hand lightly up and down herself, and giggled to see her nipples harden in response.

Finally she decided that if she couldn't beat the heat, she should at least enjoy it a little. So she dragged out a table to set a pitcher of lemonade upon in the back yard, and sprawled out on a lounge chair to catch some rays.

She exhaled deeply, kicked off her sandals and closed her eyes so she could concentrate on the sensations running through her. She visualized the desert heat roiling about her as the warmth of the sun caressed her skin and the breeze skimmed across her taut belly, lulling her into a drowsy stupor.

So she didn't bother to look up when she heard footsteps approaching. "Who's there?" she asked lazily.

"Shhhhhh," someone whispered. She jumped a little when she felt something soft across her face, and froze as a silken blindfold effectively obscured her vision.

But before she could protest or pull it off, she felt a soft hand cup her chin gently, and an even softer voice whisper again in her ear.

"Just relax and enjoy, Izzy. Trust me."

"Who is it?" she asked, curious but without panic. She was certain that she recognized the voice, but couldn't quite identify it.

"Alex?" she tried, and waited for a response. Brow furrowed, she continued, "Alex is that you? What kind of game is this?"

"Shhhhhhh," she heard again, and she concentrated hard to place that voice. Just as she was about to reach up anyways and remove the blindfold, she felt that soft hand again ... caressing her face and then ... she couldn't stop a quick intake of breath when she felt that hand move in lazy circles down her neck and play a gentle rhythm across her collarbone.

"So beautiful..." It was said so quietly she almost didn't hear the words, but there was no mistaking the tone: reverent, even worshipful.

There was no menace here; in fact, she felt a delightful little tightening in her belly as a second hand joined the first to massage her shoulders ... and the curve of her neck ... and the firm muscles of her upper arms, in slow, languid circles.

Isabel sighed; 'Alex, if this is you,' she swore silently, 'I'm going to have to rethink this whole "no-attachments" rule of mine.'

She felt a brief chill as the hands pulled back and a shadow was cast upon her from the side. She sensed hesitation, and carefully made no moves to remove the silk from across her eyes. This was getting ... interesting.

Then heat dispelled the chill, as she felt a heavy gaze envelop her from head to toe, and she couldn't help but release a breathless gasp as one hand returned to her arm, running lightly along its length, testing the firmness of her muscles and rubbing the inside of her elbow and then her wrist with maddening slowness.

She held her breath as more silky material captured her wrist and bound it gently to the arm of the chair, loose enough for her to escape without much effort but snug enough to keep her hands from exploring ... if she chose to play along.

She debated for about a second and then she felt them: two soft, full lips touching her delicate palm, tracing a path back up her arm.

She shivered; the sensations running through her were exquisite. A small noise escaped her own plump mouth as she felt warm breath join the desert breeze over and down her shoulder and collarbone, and she groaned as a finger followed the path of one string all the way down to the top of her breast.

And then teased her, lightly plucking at the outer edges of the tiny triangle of material but deftly avoiding the proud, jutting nipple no matter how Isabel squirmed.

Finally, aroused and frustrated, she went to pull her wrist from its silken confines but stopped as a glorious wetness saturated the material over her breast, creating a delightful friction as a firm mouth brought the delicious assault to a new level.

She savoured the sensations running through her body, groaning again as her trespasser leaned over to treat her other breast to a thorough tongue bath as well, even as her free wrist was captured in soft, sensuous silk where it rested on her other side.

She shuddered, her hands clenching armrests so tightly that her back arched in ecstasy, pushing her full, smooth breasts outwards in urgent invitation.

And then she gasped at the feel of cool air on her wet skin as the now soaking material was pulled away from one round globe, revealing her fully and encouraging an enthusiastic response. Her head spun; sensations she'd only dreamed about sent shivers up and down her spine, gathering deep in her belly and building.

"Don't stop," Isabel panted, and nearly passed out as the suckling intensified.

Instead, she spasmed, as waves of sensation traveled over and through her, and she was achingly aware of a hot wetness between her legs. Her thighs clenched in want, in need ... and she bit her luscious, lower lip in anticipation.

The loss of pressure on her breasts prompted an incoherent protest from deep in her throat, until two soft lips urged her teeth to release her lower lip to their own ... thorough ... ministrations.

As she moved her head forward to deepen the kiss, they pulled away and she heard a soft chuckle on the breeze. The sound of erotic desire and appreciation enveloped her, and Isabel squirmed uncontrollably as the ache seemed to grow inside of her, threatening to overwhelm her senses ...

Until eclipsed by the incomparable feel of that same mouth traveling nimbly down her neck ... between her breasts ... and onto her taut, quivering belly.

When she felt a tongue dip into her navel she couldn't hold back a shriek; her head lolled as her strength ran out of her and her neck could no longer support its weight.

For Isabel, the world shrank until nothing else existed but physical sensation; the sun was forgotten as a different heat warmed the entire length of her. Her head swam in desire and she could focus on nothing but the feel of that incredible mouth exploring every inch of exposed flesh.

And then she felt a finger tease the upper expanse of another small triangle of material, dipping between her legs, pulling the now soaked material to one side and revealing soft, blond curls.

One hand cupped her in its smooth palm as the other placed the slightest pressure between her thighs, coaxing them apart.

Isabel complied, her breath quickening, and a bead of sweat ran down her cheek as the flimsy string clasping the bikini bottom to her body was untied, and she was fully exposed to the hot desert air.

The slow touch of one finger in her inner folds drove her wild, and her hips bucked as she strove to deepen contact.

That lazy, sensuous chuckle rang in her ears again, making her buttock muscles clench in immediate response.

She became aware of a musky scent, and felt a finger press against her lips. Opening them, she suckled greedily, intoxicated by the taste of herself.

Then, deliberately relaxing her lower body, she spread her thighs so that her legs bent at the knee and her feet dangled over the side.

She was rewarded a moment later by not one but two gentle fingers massaging her inner walls, and one hand snaking about to squeeze her firm, round buttocks to pull her upwards.

"Please," she moaned, and suddenly the fingers were replaced by an expert tongue, tasting her, plunging within her ... causing her hips to buck repeatedly against its searing heat.

She growled unabashedly.

She could smell herself on the breeze and breathed deeply, drowning in a vortex of need and desire and lust.

She could feel something building within her, straining to break free, and continued to move her hips, developing a rhythm.

Suddenly, something burst inside of her, and her entire body shook with release as her head whipped from side to side uncontrollably.

As the shudders ebbed, she whispered, "thank you," and sighed. That had been lovely, and she was sorry it was over.

It wasn't.

She jerked as something cold dripped onto her bottom lip, and her tongue automatically darted out to experience this new sensation. She inhaled the faint tart scent of citrus, and smiled as she remembered the pitcher forgotten beside her, and the ice cubes she had added to keep her lemonade cool.

One of those ice cubes now traced her lips and blazed a trail of cold heat down her arched neck. Isabel shuddered in pleasure and anticipation as it was dragged over and around first one breast then the other, teasing each nipple in turn before a velvety mouth descended to sooth their hard, pebbly points.

Her tummy jumped at contact, and she giggled as the rivulets of cool water ran down her side, tickling her. Her giggles subsided into moans, however, as her nameless companion lapped confidently at the lemony water pooled around her navel.

Then, to her surprise and momentary dismay, her torture ended as the ice was taken away. She pouted, eliciting another throaty chuckle from her assailant.

"Patience."

It was so quiet she had to strain to hear the admonishment over the sound of the desert breeze.

Again, she began to wonder 'who ...?' but was distracted by gentle hands lifting her feet back onto the lounge chair. Curious, she listened to the sound of ice tinkling in the glass pitcher ... and then had to clamp back down on her bottom lip to smother a scream of pleasure.

Strong, confident hands were bathing her naked feet, squeezing cool liquid over her arches and swirling wet silk around and between her toes, which she wriggled in delight.

"Sticky," she protested weakly, and then gasped as tender lips followed the cloth, each toe enveloped by wet heat, pleasured vigorously and then released with a moist pop as capable hands massaged her elegant insteps in slow, tantalizing circles.

She was dying. Or flying; she wasn't sure which.

All too soon, she felt hands and mouth progress slowly, luxuriously, up her legs, exploring and tasting every bend, savouring every expanse of soft flesh and firm muscle.

Finally, she was allowed to spread her legs again, and this time there was no teasing, no hesitation. Both hands moulded and grasped her flesh and she was ravished passionately.

Her stomach muscles clenched, and she tasted blood as she bit her lip in exquisite agony.

The flicker of a tongue on her clit had her on the brink; a hard, desperate suckling sent her over, and Isabel wailed exultantly as fireworks rocked her body and her mind blanked, overloaded and overwhelmed by this new and heady experience.

When she came to, she opened her eyes and squinted at the brightness.

The blindfold was gone, and her wrists no longer lay captive against the armrests.

She was alone again.

Disappointed, she nevertheless chuckled as she looked down.

Her bikini was back in place, but small blotches of colour stained her from neck to toe. And at some point, someone had rubbed sun block into her skin before placing the bottle neatly back at her side, next to her pitcher of lemonade and two glasses.

"How considerate," she murmured. Apparently, her mysterious visitor was concerned about excessive sun exposure.

And dehydration, she thought, blushing at the memory of lemon-scented ice.

The slamming of a car door startled her out of her reverie, and she quickly stood to put her t-shirt back on before heading back into the house.

She skirted the front hallway, sneaking up the stairs to avoid confrontation. The t-shirt couldn't hide how sticky and marked she was.

" ... Liz is always so punctual, I don't understand why she wasn't there, it isn't like her," Max griped earnestly to the disinterested "uh-huh" of at least one Evans parent in the other room.

Having reached her room safely, Isabel stretched out on her bed, luxuriating in her newfound sensuality, and sighed. Pulling her t-shirt off, she ran her hands up and down and around her own body in memory. But the stickiness was becoming uncomfortable, so she headed to her shower, snickering as she caught sight of her swollen, sated body in the mirror.

Then she froze. Reaching up, she slowly pulled a piece of unfamiliar purple silk away from her hair. A souvenir?

Examining it closely, she found one long brown hair caught in the soft material.

She could still hear Max downstairs, wondering plaintively where his girlfriend had been that afternoon.

Isabel was stunned. And then she smiled ... a slow, feral, lascivious smirk.

'So that's what he sees in her,' she thought, and grinned in anticipation. After all, the heat wave wasn't over yet.

And turnabout is fair play.

THE END

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