Transmission: Part One

Hillary's always been a bit of a crackpot. Samantha doesn't care, as long as dinner's on the table and she's home when she says she'll be. For years Hillary's stared at the sky, trying to signal to whoever might be listening out there. Samantha smiles, keeps the lights on, keeps the bed warm. Tonight she walks through the door with something wild in her eyes. The computer shows a stream of static, but it hits different. Sharp bursts, wrong frequencies. Samantha squints at the speakers and says it sounds like language turned inside out, code folded into noise. Hillary works fast, fingers clacking, translating sound into light until the monitor fills with jagged symbols that repeat and reach. Not random. Directed. Aimed at two women in a small apartment on a quiet street. Samantha wants to call the station. Hillary pushes her back against the counter instead. Clothes hit the floor. Hillary's tongue finds her nipples, stiff from the night air, sucking until Samantha gasps and grips the edge. She drops lower, spreads Samantha open, drags her tongue through slick folds until the smaller girl shakes. Samantha yanks her up for a kiss, spins her around, returns the favor with greedy fingers sliding deep while her mouth works Hillary's clit in tight circles. They trade places, trade spit, trade moans until both of them are dripping and frantic. Hilary rides Samantha's face, grinds hard, comes with a hoarse shout while Samantha's tongue stays buried. Then she flips her girlfriend onto her back, fucks her with two fingers and sucks her clit until Samantha sprays across the sheets, the floor, Hillary's chin. They lie in the mess, hearts hammering, staring at the screen that still pulses with that impossible message. Who else is listening?