Getting Back The Girls 2 (Patreon)

Cum smeared Peggy’s inner thighs, but she didn’t bother to clean them. Instead, she pulled her pantyhose right up over the telltale evidence of her reunion with her beloved.

Steve smiled at her. “You know, in the future, they’ll find out that’s good for your complexion. Or so I read, anyway.”

“I refuse to believe that even American newspapers could ever print such rubbish. You’re having me on.”

Steve grabbed her before she could even reach for her coat. He pulled her roughly to his chest and held her in his arms. “You’re one in a million, Peg. One in a century.”

Peggy giggled and kissed him on the nose. “And you’re simply the one. There’s no other man like you.”

She realized then that he was being serious and out of a sort of commiseration with that solemnity, she put her arms around him and snuggled into his shoulder. He wanted her soft and she wanted to be soft for him.

“I want to marry you,” he said abruptly. “I don’t have any parents to introduce you to and you don’t have any family for me to get a blessing from, so let’s just count the fact that we’re together as enough of a blessing and get hitched.”

Peggy’s dumbfounded jaw hung down. As if discontented with how much of her thoughts he already occupied, Steve now took up all of her mind. A few minutes ago, she’d simply been thinking of the sex—now she had marriage on the brain. They’d talked about it obliquely two or three times, but it was a veritable shock for Steve to be so direct. Peggy was not even sure how she felt about the institution… only about Steve.

“If you need a ring to make up your mind, I’ll get one, but I think that if it’s the right man, you’d get married with a length of string around your finger. And if it’s the wrong one, a whole treasure chest wouldn’t get you into a chapel.”

He stared at her with such trust, such vulnerability, that Peggy felt a surge of love for him stronger than anything she’d ever known. Perhaps this was the love of a wife for her husband, and it simply went beyond what a bachelorette could feel.

Because now she knew, as she hadn’t with an unclaimed finger, that she couldn’t do without the overwhelming joy of this man’s company. She needed always to feel as beautiful as he made her feel. And marriage… why not? It seemed like everyone did it, so who else should she do it with but Captain America?

“I do want my length of string, Captain Rogers… but I’d also like another sample of my wedding night. After all, if it really is good for my complexion, I want to look my best when I reach the aisle…”

***

Sometimes Angie teased her by pretending to be too tired to make her come. Most of the time she went right after Peggy’s sex with a relish that made the Englishwoman feel like some golden idol, the way Angie coveted and savored her. Angie wasn’t a woman to hold back. Strong appetites in all areas. She loved food and drink and making love. It somehow made sense to Peggy that a woman who loved other women would have an excess of femininity—God, she was all woman!

***

Peggy ripped off her clothes as soon as the door to her apartment was shut behind her. Naked, she went to run a bath, then turned on the shower instead and stepping under its needling spray. What did she need a bath for? To literally soak in what she had done? She tried to convince herself there was no need to punish herself. As an SSR agent, she often went undercover as characters not herself.

“Jane Woodman or Leslie Rode or April Park,” she said to the mirror, “that’s who did it. Not you. One of your personas. There’s no need to punish yourself for what she did.”

Just three weeks before, she’d been with Steve for the first time, and it’d been glorious. But that glory had seemed to go away and hide after that. Her first orgasm was also her last. It made Peggy both angry and somewhat ashamed that she didn’t enjoy having sex with Steve more. She didn’t know how it was her fault, but surely Steve couldn’t be blamed. He was as gentle and tender as a man could be. So whatever was missing had to be in her.

***

Angie’s longing for Peggy was all-consuming, addictive—she wanted her far too much to gainsay her whatever she had with Steve. She probably would’ve stepped out with the guy too. She just wished he made Peggy unreservedly happy, not giving her… whatever issues he saddled her with. Peggy deserved to be as happy as both of them could make her, and it was no hardship to try and make her happy. Not with her gorgeous face, that satiny body, even the perfume she wore.

***

Peggy felt as if the Sapphic act was something she’d been waiting for all her life. As happy as she was with Steve, it just kept feeling like there was something missing, something she only knew by its absent shape. She kept telling herself she didn’t know what it was when she wasn’t with Angie, but when she was, she knew exactly what she’d been yearning for. All that spoiled it was the knowledge of how unfair she was being to Steve.

But when she wanted Angie so badly… when she finally gave in and was with her… there was no guilt. Maybe tomorrow it would come rushing back to her. Yes, she knew it would. Tomorrow she’d feel all the guilt that should’ve stopped her in her tracks today. She’d feel terrible about fucking Angie, about wanting anyone above and beyond her perfect man.

She wanted to make Steve happy, yet she knew he wanted her to be happy, and she wanted herself to be happy, but how could she be happy if she broke Steve’s heart?

***

Angie was also one of the few people she could trust either in her civilian life or in the SSR. Between that, and Angie’s endless desire to help Peggy out in whatever ‘thrilling’ capacity she could, Peggy allowed Angie to help her with paperwork, filing, and research.

They worked that way one evening, Angie in shorts and a jersey, Peggy in a black lace negligee she’d been wearing undercover and kept on as she dictated all she’d learned while it was still fresh. Maddeningly, for all Peggy’s skill, she wasn’t half as fast on a typewriter as Angie was. Until she noticed Angie wasn’t typing.

“What’s wrong?” Peggy demanded.

Angie looked up sharply at her, like the perfect picture of a wife ready to scrap with her husband. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong with you? You’ve got Steve back, but every time I see you, you seem so sad. Even when we—“

Peggy reddened. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

Angie plucked her current page out of the typewriter and set it down on the pile. She went over to Peggy’s chair and slipped her arms around the other woman’s shoulders. “I get it, English. You can dream about something so much that the real thing’s a letdown, just because it ain’t a dream.”

Peggy could’ve laughed. The problem wasn’t with Steve. He was perfect. Better than she could’ve imagined. It was her. She didn’t, couldn’t appreciate him.

Was it Angie’s fault? Had she perverted Peggy to the point where she couldn’t truly enjoy a natural relationship? Peggy couldn’t believe that. She could never be angry with Angie for how she’d made her feel.

Sighing, Peggy leaned back in her chair. Angie started to massage her shoulders. “Mmmm,” she crooned. “That feels rather nice.”

“So will you if you relax a bit,” Angie said. “Whatever’s getting to you, can’t be that bad if you just let yourself unclench for once. Aren’t you doing that with Steve?”

Peggy closed her eyes and ignored her, knowing Angie wouldn’t stop her fine touch on Peggy’s taut shoulders and bunched-up arms. She didn’t see Angie looking down the low-cut front of her negligee and admiring her cleavage, though if she cared to, she could’ve well imagined it.

Angie was long past playing coy about how powerfully aroused she was by Peggy’s gorgeous body. But ever since Steve had come back, Peggy almost willfully evaded the thought of Angie’s attraction to her—until the subject was all but unavoidable.

“Ahhhhh, Ang, what would I do without you?” Peggy muttered.

“Don’t try to keep up a conversation on my account,” Angie cooed to her. “Just relax.”

Jittery with excitement, Angie ran her massaging hands down to Peggy’s softly heaving breasts. Peggy felt their warmth rubbing and stroking its way to her chest, but it didn’t alarm her. It felt too pleasant to alarm her. Angie was too good a friend to alarm her.

Fingers moved under the semi-sheer material of the negligee and touched her ample bosom. Peggy said nothing: she was taking Angie’s advice, shutting her mind off, only allowing her body to enjoy the break from its tension, the vacation into pure pleasure. So Angie moved her hands lower, now actually cupping Peggy’s luscious breasts and finding them more than a fit for her small hands.

“God, English, I wish I had your build. The switchboard would light up with the callbacks I’d get.”

“Don’t,” Peggy tittered. “It just gets in the way.”

“I like having it in my way,” Angie sighed. She gave Peggy’s full, silky-smooth mounds a little squeeze.

Peggy bit her lip, but said nothing. She knew she’d give in, so why protest? And she knew she’d feel guilty later. It was as constant as her menstrual cycle. She no longer felt a swell of panic at those first cramps, so why should she worry about this? Maybe she should just resign herself to the fact that the closer she came to happiness was bigamy; constantly switching off between the man she loved and the woman she loved.

And it really did feel good. Peggy couldn’t help responding. Her tingling breasts stiffened, pushing out at Angie’s palms, as hungry for contact as the rest of Peggy’s body.

Angie felt their swelling and almost moaned with need. She leaned down and brushed her cheek against Peggy’s. When Peggy still showed no sign of resistance, of even reluctance, Angie moved lower and kissed those ruby-red lips. The long, lingering kiss Angie felt more on her womanhood than on her lips. Down there between her legs she was wet and scorching.

“Mmmmmm,” Angie moaned, happily thrilling to the contact and a new shot at relieving Peggy of her woes.

Peggy didn’t get a chance to find out if this time she’d be able to resist Angie. The doorbell rang. Angie leapt back in surprise and Peggy bolted out of her chair. Adjusting her negligee, she hurried to the door, grabbing a housecoat from the hall tree to throw on over her enticingly jiggling body.

“I swear, that gal’s gonna make me flip my wig,” Angie muttered to herself.

The caller was Steve Rogers. Peggy opened the door and looked up his towering height and she felt a lustful rise right inside her. Why? Shouldn’t her senses be attuned to Angie, desperate to get back to what she’d just had with her? Or was she some sort of slut, with her raging hormones making no distinction—man, woman, they just wanted her to be hugged and kissed and more?

“Steve, what a surprise!” she beamed at him. “Do come in.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, giving her the warm smile that she always merited from him. “I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

“It’s never a bad time for you,” she said. “Come in. You know Angie, of course.”

“I was just leaving,” Angie said, sounding flustered—though Steve would surely just consider that to be embarrassment at being caught by a man in such a casual state of dress.

“Nonsense,” Peggy said, for no earthly reason she could finger. “I’m sure Steve will be having a nightcap and I couldn’t live with myself if I left you out of a friendly drink.”

Angie dropped her head. “Suppose it beats drinking alone,” she said. “And it’s not like I have a man to buy my booze for me.”