DISCLAIMER: Watch out, this is femslash (lite). Don't read it if you're not into this sort of thing. I own nothing of Grey's Anatomy. I'm only having fun with the characters I'm fast becoming obsessed with. Any mistakes are my own and occurred because I didn't heed advice.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just another harmless bit of fluff, set in the summer between Seasons 4 and 5. Again, it assumes Erica and Callie have started a relationship, but are probably not too far along yet. This is my fifth Grey's Anatomy story. Written in June, 2008. Thanks once again to my Mighty Editor Goddess, Brenda S., and to Jules68, for her continued insight into the tiny details of Grey's Anatomy
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.

By DianeB


"So," Erica asked, looking skeptically around the kitchen that was prepped like something from the Food Networkä. "What are we doing again?"

Callie put her hands on her jean-clad hips and sighed in mock exasperation. "Like I told you yesterday, we are making corn tortillas. From scratch."

Looking distinctly unconvinced of this possibility, Erica said, "Okaay. But what is that?" She pointed to a white plastic bucket sitting on a thick pad of newspaper on the floor beside the table. The paper was damp with water that had spilled over the edge of the full bucket.

"That, my lily-white friend, is maize," Callie teased, adopting the accent of her Mexican roots. "I bought it raw at the market yesterday, and I have been soaking it all night in water and limestone, and now it is ready."

"Uh, limestone?"

"Yes," Callie answered, losing the accent. "Limestone makes the kernels more nutritious by releasing the niacin in the corn and making it easier to digest. Can't have a bellyache, you know."

"Heaven forbid. And it's, uh, 'ready' for what?"

Callie sidled over to the counter, picked up something that looked to Erica very like a rock, and came back to Erica with it. "Hold out your hand, please, palm up."

When Erica did, Callie placed the rock into her palm, where it fit neatly and felt to Erica a little like pumice, and applied a light circular pressure, bringing her opposite hand up to provide support.

No words were exchanged for a moment. Callie just massaged Erica's palm with the rock, her eyes fixed on Erica's, until Erica began to feel familiar twinges in the region below her navel. "Uh, huh. . ." Erica tried to pull her hand away, but Callie would have none of it. Erica next tried to say something, swallowing against a surprisingly dry throat, but was unable to get her tongue to form actual words. Callie saved her by speaking first, her voice throaty and low.

"It is ready, my darling, to be ground into masa to make the tortillas. This," Callie purred, pressing the rock into Erica's palm for emphasis, "is a mano. It is used with the metate," and here Callie cocked her head, without taking her eyes off Erica, toward the counter where a shallow bowl-like object sat, made of the same material as the mano, "to do the," Callie paused and took her voice down another notch, "grinding. Comprende?"

God, Erica thought, her palm tingling like mad, this woman will be the death of me. "Uh huh."

"Good," Callie said, smiling broadly, clearly very pleased with the affect she was having. "Come, then." She carefully led Erica to the counter, and positioned her in front of the metate, placing the mano beside it. Erica watched as Callie bent to the bucket and retrieved a handful of the soft, sodden kernels. Straightening, she placed it into the center of the metate and stepped behind Erica.

"Now," she said, bringing her arms around Erica, "we grind." She placed the mano on the pile of corn and put Erica's hands on top of it. Shifting herself so she could better straddle Erica's hip, Callie put her own hands on top of Erica's and leaned in, pressing her body into Erica and her hands down on the corn, rocking back and then repeating the motion, and again once more. "There, doesn't that feel good?"

Erica, already vibrating from Callie's foreplay on her palm, now felt goosebumps rise over her entire body and sweat break out along her hairline. It was all she could do to remain standing, and to keep from actually falling, leaned back into Callie, her fingers relaxing on the mano. "Oh my God, Callie, you can't expect me to—"

But Callie was apparently very much expecting her to. "Oh, no you don't, lover," she admonished without ire, using her body's greater mass to push Erica upright, again adopting the accent. "We're gonna grind the maize and make the tortillas. We cannot stop until the smell of cooking tortillas fills the house."

With that, Callie started grinding again, exaggerating each motion to heighten her contact, and holding herself so fully against Erica that Erica lost all awareness of anything except the feel of Callie's hands on hers, Callie's heat and weight enveloping her, and the press of her own body into the edge of the counter.

"Callie. . .Callie. . ."

"Shh," Callie whispered, nuzzling Erica's neck, "don't talk. Just let it happen."

By this time, Erica wanted very much to just let it happen. She could feel her body rising blissfully to the summit, tried desperately to increase the contact between herself and the counter, but couldn't manage it. She'd need more direct stimulation in order to climax, but because they were so new to each other's bodies, Erica knew Callie couldn't know this. She tried again to speak, to tell Callie what she needed, but was unable to get more than a few stuttering words past her lips. Her fingers tightened on the mano.

"Callie—sorry. I can't—I can't—I need—"

Once more, Callie hushed her. "It's okay, mi amor, relax. I know, I know."

The corn, by this time, had begun its transformation into masa, the dough that would eventually become a tortilla. Callie shifted her stance and took one of Erica's hands off the mano, turning it palm up. Smearing a little of the coarse, sticky dough on Erica's wrist, Callie lifted it to her lips, but did not lick it off.

Instead, she held Erica's wrist suspended, and with her other hand, tugged Erica away from the counter, snaked her hand down the front of Erica's pants and into her hot, damp curls.

This position was decidedly awkward, but it clearly wasn't stopping Callie. She brought her mouth to Erica's wrist and, with skill that surely came from Aphrodite herself, ran her tongue over the dough at the same time as her middle finger found Erica's slick clitoris and swirled slowly around it.

Erica inhaled sharply and stiffened, the disparate yet simultaneous sensations driving her beyond mere release. Callie, never stopping her slow, sensual stroking, traded Erica's wrist for her nipple, pinching it lightly, and the moment Callie did this, Erica stopped breathing, her legs went numb, and she thundered into a full-body orgasm, unaware she was losing consciousness until it had happened and she was coming to, still standing, her pelvis pounding, with Callie's arms fully wrapped around her.


It was uncertain which woman actually said it.

The End


Coda: Callie and Erica did eventually make tortillas that day. Just not with that first bit of dough – no, that dough found itself another job.


Tortilleras, we are called,

Grinders of maize, makers, bakers,

Slow lovers of women.

The secret is starting from scratch.

-- Alicia Gaspar de Alba, from her 1989 poem, Making Tortillas

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