Bilingual

They say not to get your honey where you get your money. Then maybe whoever coined that aphorism had never met Vanessa, or Van as she preferred to be addressed. Honey didn't really capture the extent of her considerable allure, particularly as she wore her sexual preferences as a badge of honor - often literally - making me both jealous and ashamed of my own much less brave approach. Then my personality had always been to stay in the background, to be unremarkable, safety lay in such an approach.

But there were still ways to signal that I was a kindred spirit. The days of advertising yourself as a lesbian via multi-colored nail polish had long gone, appropriated by incurably straight accent nails. But I was a climber, so the purple Black Diamond LiteWire clipped to my work backpack had the added advantage of plausible deniability, and thumb rings still seemed to be pretty much a femme thing. Despite my otherwise hetero appearance, Van made it clear that she knew.

Knowing was one thing, doing something about it clearly another. In any case, Van made no secret of having a girlfriend. Her office desk was adorned with photos of the two of them. Or rather it had been. Lately they had mysteriously vanished and I didn't really know her well enough to ask if all was OK at home. However, disappearing photos might have had something to do with Van sitting on the side of my desk one Friday morning.

I found that her proximity always raised my heart rate, made my breath come quicker. There was something very physical about her presence. To me she oozed feminine sensuality, and did so in such a confident manner; one I could only dream of replicating. It was partly the way her unruly red hair tumbled over her shoulders. Partly the slightly flawed symmetry of her beautiful face, something that suggested an underlying appetite for mischief. But it was mostly her attitude which - to my eyes at least - showed that she was very aware of her own vibrant sexuality.

"Hey, Dhyani," she said, smiling, and toying with my stapler. Her sibilant, contralto voice always sounded seductive to me, but it seemed especially so today.

"Hey, Vanessa," I replied, hastily correcting myself with a, "Van," when I was the recipient of a raised eyebrow. I pushed my glasses up. They had slipped down my nose, that was all. It wasn't a nervous tic, I told myself.

She leaned to look at my screen. "Such a riveting spreadsheet..." she drawled, lingering over each 's.' If she had yawned, the sense of ennui that Van was giving off could not have been any clearer.

I found myself bristling a little, injured professional pride trumping other more personal feelings, at least momentarily. "It's actually kind of important, Van." My cheeks felt hot as I spoke.

"I'm sure," she said, with a hissing undertone, and this time actually yawning.

Determined to make my point, I pressed on. "Well it calculates the new, lost, and retained business for each division, together with price changes, growth, expenses, and - ultimately - profitability."

"Um..." said Van, examining her scarlett nail polish.

"It goes some way to determining your annual bonus," I blurted out, probably unwisely.

"Oh, I know," she replied, "just rather less than how often I suck the CEO off."

I was about to be both shocked and rather indignant, when I caught the sparkle in Van's eyes. "You... you're fucking with me, aren't you?"

I clasped my hand to my mouth, such language was not viewed as professional, particularly for a mere accountant addressing a divisional manager. "I'm... so sorry... I don't know..."

"Hey, no problem. Us girls gotta stick together, right?" The emphasis Van placed on 'us girls' left me in no doubt as to which subset of women she was referring. My skin tone often helpfully hid blushes, but today I thought that my face must be glowing maroon.

"Anyway," she continued with a grin. "Speaking of fucking with you... want to get a drink after work, my treat?"

I stared at my colleague, eyes wide, mouth goldfish-like for some seconds. My heart was thumping and my vocal cords seemed to have decoupled from my brain for the time being. I felt sure that I must have misunderstood some element of what Van had said.

"Wanna check with your spreadsheet, maybe?" said Van, getting up. "I'm sure the answer must be in there somewhere. You could message me on Teams when you have found it. Or... well my personal phone is in my contact details. Your boss decided corporate cells were a great expense saving opportunity, remember?"

With that she walked back to her office, and closed the door. But the front wall was floor to ceiling glass, and I could see Van blow me a theatrical kiss before she turned her attention to her PC screen.

Opening Teams, I typed in 'Snow, V' and selected her full name when it appeared. My finger tips hung poised over the keyboard. Was this a great idea? What did Van want from me? And... a big concern... was she just looking for a post-break up distraction?

I decided that maybe even just being a temporary curative for Van might be rather amazing, and typed, 'Where and what time?' I hit 'Send,' before good judgement could stop me.

While waiting for her reply, I looked up Van's number and added it to my WhatsApp. She had obviously been doing the same thing as my phone pinged.

I know a nice bar. Meet me at the main entrance at six, I'll arrange an Uber

I pondered what to say in reply, then decided I knew just how to best express my feelings.

???? ????

Van's reply was succinct:

✂️

Abandoning my phone, I looked into Van's office again and caught her eye. We both dissolved in silent laughter. Maybe this evening would go OK, I thought to myself.

Van had disappeared from her office mid-afternoon. In the bathroom, I'd refreshed my lip gloss, and put in my contacts. Now, as I stood blinking in reception at just before six, she was still nowhere to be seen. Maybe she had had second thoughts. Could I really blame her?

I guess I wasn't totally ugly. A friend had once described me as possessing an enticing exoticism. I didn't feel very exotic, Jackson Heights - where I grew up - was not exactly the Mystic East. Neither did a degree in Business, Management, and Accounting from CUNY have much in common with Ayurveda. My mother had always despaired of my refusal to use any of her many lightening creams. I didn't want to be gora, I wanted to be me. But, I had to admit, me was perhaps not the most attractive of visual packages.

My insecure musings were interrupted by a voice. "Hey, cutie. Sorry I'm a little late. You ready to go?"

Cutie? Me?

"Yeah... sure, Van... um..."

"Something on your mind, Dhyani? Is it OK to use 'Dhy' by the way?"

I nodded my consent to the use of a diminutive. But what was most on my mind was Van's transformation. Fridays were casual days and earlier she had been wearing loose khaki pants, flats, and a black, cotton boat neck; a pretty outfit, but still professional. Now...

Most women have at least one LBD, but my own one was significantly more modest than Van's. Hers looked like what Coco Chanel might have designed if her target audience had been strippers. It was clearly an expensive garment, and the number of dollars per square inch of actual fabric must have been truly astronomic. And Van wore it well, then she had legs to die for, or maybe kill.

Reading my dumbstruck thoughts, Van baletically twirled, not an easy task given the height of her heels. "Do you like it?" she grinned.

"I love it." The words had tumbled out before I could filter them for appropriateness. Looking down at my own work clothes, I added, "But..."

"You look great," said Van, encouragingly. She then ran an appraising eye over me. "But... if you want to change, my place isn't far, and I think we are a similar size. I have lots of things you could try on."

I felt explosions going off in my head. Going to Van's place? Playing dress up together? Was I asleep and lost in some fantasy?

Van adopted a mock frown. "Shall I take you gawking as a 'yes' maybe?"

I heard a distant voice mumble, "OK," it seemed to have nothing to do with me. But I took Van's proffered hand and together we walked out to the Uber. The security guard did nothing to disguise how he was gazing at Van as she got into the car. I empathized entirely, it was impossible not to stare.

Van had given the driver an address, and we were on our way. Strains of what I thought might be Moroccan music drifted into the rear of the car. I shuddered to think what volume the guy had turned his AirPods up to. But his likely aural damage at least offered us some privacy, and I had a question on my mind. A delicate question, then I was feeling a little braver than normal, buoyed by my colleague's presence.

"Um..." I began decisively.

Van turned to me and flashed a flawless smile. "Yes, cutie."

I felt an inner warmth at her repeated use of the endearment, the sensation encouraged me to go on. "I... well I couldn't help noticing that... well... you forgot to put on any panties when you changed. I... I thought I should tell you. It was... kind of obvious when you got in the car."

I thought it was only sisterly solidarity to look out for another woman, to save her any unnecessary embarrassment.

"Silly me," she replied, "let's check shall we?"

With that she wriggled up her dress. "Yes, you are right. Well, at least I waxed recently, so no harm, no foul."

"Van!" I exclaimed, though whether in reaction to her licentious insouciance, or her immaculately smooth vulva, I was unclear.

"You're even cuter when you blush, Dhy," Van purred. And she leaned sideways to kiss my burning cheek. "Nearly there."

She put her hand on my leg, gave my thigh a short squeeze, and left it there rather proprietorially. If an action could simultaneously be both perfectly natural and deliciously electric, then this was a good summation of my feelings. I tried to modulate my breathing and to calm my erratic heartbeat. I wondered about the state of my own panties.

We arrived beneath a high rise. The building was modern, one of many luxury residences that had sprung up downtown in recent years. My job meant I had a good idea about what someone in Van's position might earn, still the place was obviously pricey.

Van was just as carefree about her exit of the car as she had been with her entrance. Guiltily I found my eyes drawn to the pale flesh of her crotch. I began to fret about my own body. I'd trimmed a couple of days back, but was otherwise as nature intended, I felt rather unsophisticated. Maybe I was getting horribly ahead of myself. Then the image of Van wantonly displaying her genitalia to me came back and I figured I knew exactly what was going to happen. The thought had my heart pounding in anticipation again.

Inside the building, Van waved at a woman who was seated behind a marble desk, getting a, "Good evening, Miss Snow," in reply. I assumed that the receptionist was accustomed to residents holding hands with visitors, regardless of their gender.

Van took a plastic card from her purse - Louis Vuitton I noticed for the first time - and held it up to a panel between two elevators. The left hand doors swished apart immediately, and we both got in. Even before they had closed again, Van cupped my face and brushed her lips against mine, leaving me limp, wanting her more. Checking briefly that I was OK, she kissed me more firmly. I couldn't help but extend my tongue into her mouth, it was as if I was on auto-pilot.

To my chagrin, Van pulled back, tight lipped. For the first time since I had met her a year and a half ago, she spoke with hesitation. "It's OK... I... I just have to tell you something first. Let's... let's wait until we get inside."

It could have been no more than a minute or so before the car reached her floor, but it felt like an eternity to me, as we stood silently side by side, and I puzzled over what I could have done wrong. Then I felt Van's hand take mine again, and told myself it would be OK.

We walked a short way down a rather opulent corridor to the second door on the right. Van swiped her card and the bolt slid back with a whir. Motioning me to sit on an expensive-looking, black leather couch, Van disappeared, returning with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. She unscrewed the lid and poured us each a generous measure.

"Let's drink to taking a chance, shall we?" Van said as she handed me my glass. We clinked, I took a large gulp, then sat expectantly, wondering what it was my colleague wanted to tell me.

Van quaffed even more of her drink than I had, and then placed it on the travertine table in front of us. She seemed to be geeing herself up to impart some information.

"OK, Dhyani, I... I'm a little bit different."

I found myself wanting to reassure her. "If you're trans, then... well that's cool." I recalled Van's intimate anatomy and thought that she must have had an excellent reassignment surgeon.

My words brought unexpected laughter, "Well, that's good to know. Same goes for you too, Dhy. But, that's not it, I'm cis, but... but there is something else."

Embarrassed at my insensitive faux pas, I decided that I was better off just waiting in silence.

Van shifted so that she was facing me and took both my hands in hers. "OK, it's probably easier to just show you. But... and I know this sounds weird... I'm a woman, not an alien, or a demon, or... whatever."

I felt my eyes widen and panic begin to rise in my chest. Van picked up on my distress. "Oh shit! Now I've freaked you out. I really need to figure out a better way to explain, well... this. I hope it's not too gross for you."

Her eyes fixed on mine, Van squeezed my hands, and stuck out her tongue. I was expecting maybe a stud, or something. But no, it was just a normal tongue, albeit with a prominent groove down the middle. And maybe it was rather longer than normal.

Van seemed to understand my thought process perfectly and she rolled her eyes. As she did, the groove deepened, then - while I looked on in amazement - her tongue bifurcated, and I realized that it had never been a single organ, she had just been pushing the two sides together.

Van was looking at me with a 'please don't scream' expression on her face and with her two tongues wiggling independently.

"Fuck!" I said out loud, once more clamping my hand to my mouth, and then quickly apologizing. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude. It's just..."

Van pulled her tongues back in and smiled ruefully. "Well you haven't run away, that's something. One woman did. She called the cops, not that they gave a fuck, thankfully."

"Oh God, that's awful," I sympathized, without - I realized - dissembling in any way.

"Yeah, but I kinda get it," she said a little sadly, "I think I'd have a pretty extreme reaction too. You're doing great for what it's worth."

I had regained my poise. "And you're not..."

"A shapeshifting xenomorph who will fuck you and then eat your brain? No, it's a condition. It's called glossoschisis if you want to know. It's super rare and my case is the most extreme anyone has ever seen. They've written papers about me, I was in the NEJM."

Van had sounded rather matter of fact so far, but now her voice was lower and less certain. Her modulated susurration was also more obvious to me, and I wondered why I had never really noticed it more before.

After a lengthy pause, she asked, "Do I.. repulse you?" The end of 'repulse' was drawn out, the 'sss' lingering in her lips, taking its time to leave her mouth.

I felt something inside me break. This undeniably successful, apparently ultra-confident, and frankly gorgeous woman was... just like me. Questioning her worth, stressing over her appearance, building minor imperfections into major flaws, yearning for validation and acceptance.

I didn't know what to say, so many different emotions were churning in me. So, instead of speaking, I acted. I cupped Van's face - just as she had done mine in the elevator - and slowly, deliberately, and - I at least hoped - seductively said, "Kiss me. And I mean a proper French kiss, OK."

Van smiled, tears in her eyes, and then did just what I had asked her to do.

To be honest, it was hard to tell the difference when we kissed. My emotions were more caught up in the intense intimacy and my focus was on who I was kissing rather than their muscular hydrostats. My main impression was of active and passionate osculation, and of two spirits tenderly entwining.

Pulling back, and slightly breathless, I attempted to articulate a thought that had just crossed my mind. "Um... it seemed like... they... is that the right thing to say...? were kind of... independent, right?"

Van licked both the right and left extremities of her lips simultaneously, then said, "It appears so."

"So... um... can you... like...?" I was struggling to find the words.

"Can I do tricks?" asked Van, smiling, "wanna find out?"

I found my voice, eagerly saying, "Yes please!"

I basically ripped my clothes off in my impatient rush. Van was struggling with the single clasp which kept her dress in place. "Can you? I think it's jammed."

Now more conscious of my nudity and of Van's eyes tracking me, I walked behind her and took a look. A piece of the dress had indeed got caught in the clip, and I worked it loose, conscious not to tear the expensive material. As it came free, I saw a tiny label saying 'Chanel,' with an even smaller logo beneath it. I congratulated myself on my eye for fashion.

But, as the garment fell gracefully off of Van, its maker was the last thing on my mind. It was like a statue by a master craftsman being unveiled. She really had a fine body. The alabaster skin on her elegant back and pert butt contrasted pleasingly with my own wheatish tone. I couldn't resist placing my hands on her, and Van's flesh was silky smooth and soft. She giggled at my touch, then took my hands and guided them to her mid-sized breasts, as I held her from behind and buried my face in the side of her neck, her long auburn locks tickling my nose.

Her aroma was captivating. Earthy notes of fresh sweat, with an undertone of citrus, and her hair smelled of jasmine. She turned in my arms, and stroked my cheek. I felt like a shy young girl, not my late-twenties self. Then Van took a step back and ran her eyes up and down me in an assessing sort of way.

"Wow! You're so toned. You have, like, abs. Are you, like, an athlete or something?"

The aroused approval evident in her voice was like an aphrodisiac to me. I self-described as skinny, and toned sounded a whole lot nicer. "I cycle a bit," I replied, "but the abs are from rock climbing; I do it a lot."

"Cool! Have you seen...?"

I tried not to roll my eyes. "Free Solo? Of course. Yes, Alex is amazing. Yes, he's totally crazy. And no, I don't do that shit. He's actually a really sweet guy."

"Wait... you know Alex... whatshisname?"

"Honnold," I said. "Yeah, a bit. He gave a talk at my wall, and I took a one-on-one coaching session with him. Lovely, gentle guy. Amazing climber, but totally mad... obviously."

I was conscious that I was nude, was with a beautiful and deeply sexy woman, who was also nude, and for some reason we were discussing a male rock climber. Something was wrong with this picture. "Can we... maybe... talk about climbing later?" I asked. "You were going to show me some tricks, I think."

"Of course," replied Van, saying 'course' with the same slight hiss that I was now beginning to find really hot. "Let's go to the bedroom."

Van's bedroom was both pristine and minimalist, then I spied what looked like a large walk-in closet on the left, and assumed this housed the customary detritus. Her bed was the most extravagant thing about the room. For a start it was massive, for a second thing, it had a mirror on the ceiling above it - I'd thought those had died with Hugh Hefner. And the bed clothes were all rich purples and blacks, satin and silk, and throw pillows were everywhere.

"I'm a bit of a hedonist, darling," Van whispered with a hint of embarrassment. "Is it too much?"

For a vampire's lair, or Imperial Rome maybe not, but for little me? I gulped and managed, "It's lovely."

Van took me by the hand and laid me down, the sleek material caressed my skin, making me feel special. But not as special as when Van crawled over me and touched her lips to mine, before working her way down my twitching body, placing a soft kiss every few inches. My neck. My left collar bone. One breast, and then the other. Down my protruding ribs, to my deep navel. I silently begged her to continue her slow, sensuous descent, eyes closed, my body quivering in expectation as she approached her obvious destination.

I could feel Van's body between my thighs now and heard a, "Psst!" The middle sound was drawn out in her customary, serpentine style.

I opened my eyes, and looked down. Van was grinning, "I just wanted to warn you, some people can find this kinda intense. Maybe let's hold hands, OK? And tell me if it gets too much."

Unable to speak, I nodded, and we interlinked our fingers. Van lowered her head and I got a glimpse of her two appendages snaking out before my own body obscured the view.

"Oh my fucking God!" I screamed as one tongue found my clitoris and the other my vaginal opening.

With another shriek, I squeezed Van's hands as if my life depended on it, and tried to cope with the waves of intolerable pleasure she was sending pulsing through my trembling body.

I'd never tried a Magic Wand, but this was what I imagined it must be like. If there were two Hitachis, that is, and each was also a twisting, flicking, sinuous, living muscle.

Van's dual oral stimulation truly felt like torture, like it was much too much, but it was also the sweetest, most fulfilling, yet most agonizing sensation I had ever experienced. And nothing else even came close. I basically hung on for dear life as the first of what I knew would be many orgasms rushed through me like an express train... which was on fire... and whose brakes had failed.

I caught sight of my reflection, hanging above me. It seemed that every muscle in my body was taut and convulsing. And the way Van's red tresses flowed over me, looked for all the World as if my lower half was engulfed in flames. As Van shifted slightly, I felt one of her tongues brush my anus, and heard a muffled, "Is that OK for you?"

Rather than answer, I put both hands on her head and pushed Van down onto my needy, flushed flesh. As I prepared for my lover's long, twin tongues to fan my still smoldering fires into a fearsome flaring inferno, I exclaimed, "Oh, Van, please do that again, I need you to do that again."

'"Yes, my princess", Van hissed sonorously, "your wish is my summons." Each glissading 's' washed over me like warm and welcoming water.

And, at Van's words, I committed myself fully to embracing her excruciating, sinuous, diploid stimulation. And I knew with certainty that I never needed - nor wanted - any lover but her.

THE END

Glossoschisis is a real, if rare, congenital condition. It is thought to be due to developmental issues leading to the tongue not fusing properly in the fetus. Sufferers can experience difficulty speaking, eating, and carrying out other functions. Surgery is normally the recommended treatment in severe cases. The very exaggerated, and fetishized, fantasy version of split tongue that I feature here is in no way intended as being disrespectful to anyone who suffers from the actual real-life condition.