The Softer Side
By Cherry Black
Never Leave Me Alone
By JT Langdon
By Jean Roberta
My Indentured ...
Sword And ...
A Stiff Neck
By Robert Buckley
The Magic Lesbian
By Teresa Lamai
By William Dean
Note to Self
by Geneva King
Girls' Night Out
by Giulia Cosentino
by J.T. Benjamin
by J.Z. Sharpe
by Nicholas M.
by Remittance Girl
The Problem of Leather
by Roxy Katt
Taste of Jessica
by TD Fallon
My Dark and Empty Sky
by Teresa Wymore
by Tulsa Brown
By Mike Kimera
By Nikki Isaak
Cruising The Precipices
By Remittance Girl
By Tulsa Brown
A Teaspoon Of...
by Alice Gray
The Adventure of...
by Angela Caperton
by C.C. Williams
The Honey Bee
by Helen E. H. Madden
Luis and the Boy Toy
by Helena Settimana
Put Them On
by Jay Lygon
The Cowboy Way
by L.A. Smith
by Lilie Berlin
The Gay Picture Show
by M.K. Bowes
Maid for a Queen
by Elliot DeLocke
Daisy Chain on ...
by William Dean
by Cherry Black © 2008
After a whole lot of soul searching I arrive at the conclusion that the honourable thing to do is to come clean with Karin, my long-distance Email Lover. Therefore, naturally, I lie.
I tell Karin this: I've met another woman on line. Rhonda. Just chatting and stuff. You know. Now Rhonda's gone and got the hots for me, poor thing, and it's all a bit of a nuisance but I haven't the heart to get rid of her. Huh, how about that.
I omit the following: I may have sent Rhonda a few naked pics and stuff. I may have indicated that I am a raving dyke who's fucked chicks to the point of grinning stupor, or thereabouts, all over the country. Or thereabouts. I may have sent her some of my lesbian erotic stories. I may have told her she's got the most fantastic tits that I'd love to lick and lick if we ever got the chance to get together. I may have asked for some naked pics in return. Which I got.
And oh yeah, I may have indicated that I have feelings for her—you know, that kind of old crap we feel we can safely trowel into our emails and never really be called to account on.
I tell Karin, that recently in a hot email full of longing, Rhonda has revealed a lie of her own. About where she lives. It is not the cosy little hamlet in the Thames valley near Basingstoke—half way across the world from me—that she may have dreamily mentioned in the context of fantasies involving me tied up naked against cider crates. She lives in my own country, in my own city, not more than four suburbs away.
How does all that sound so far?
Lies, of course, going all directions. Actually, I work with Rhonda. We have been having an oblique but very hot email prelude.
Karin, by email, has the gentle interrogator's way of getting quickly to the truth. Her first reaction is to ask, 'Is she pretty?'
Her second reaction is to send me a new movie of herself masturbating in Hakon's reclining T.V. chair while watching Der Neue Welt, gasping out my name through two or three fairly good-sounding orgasms, just to make things clear about who belongs to whom.
Her third reaction is this. I get a very long email that basically says, 'Darling, you are my email slut. But I can see you have other desires. That is only natural. I want you to follow these desires. From so far away, how could I stop you? In fact I order you to follow these desires to their fullest conclusion then you don't need to lie to me.' I am paraphrasing. Karin's English grammar is not quite that good. She tends to put verbs at the end, and punctuation is optional. Not for that alone, but including that, her emails leave me tingling all over.
So, that's the background.
Stuffing my windmill-and-woodpecker mailbox on the day I am for the first time to meet with Rhonda alone after business hours, a parcel arrives, Par Avion, from Karin. Some sexy, black thong-style panties. YSL ('It's nothing Darling.'), not that I notice brands. As usual they are drenched in Joop. As the packet opens, the heavenly odour elevates me on tippy-toes and spirits me away to other sexier times, and to the point where for three whole seconds I forget my near-dread of the appointment ahead this evening. A simple note in Karin's spiky script instructs, 'Wear them darling. So I can be with you, in intimacy. Let Rhoda (sic) look at you first. Long as she wants. Let her look at your pussy from inside my tanga. Let her fingers go inside where I have put my fingers inside, dreaming they are in your pussy not my own. Darling I am sick with jealousy that my fingers won't be the first to go in you.'
And so on.
The Joop-soaked letter leaves me weak at the knees. I have a quick finger in the shower and with the retreat of orgasm so looms a greater tide of dread. Karin's panties go on under a skirt of black with pink hibiscus in relief, a light summer singlet top, mushroom in color to highlight the hibiscus. Bare legs continue a natural regime of light makeup and casual hair. I'm an Earthy Femme, apparently, according to some aromatherapy chick who looks like the Sphinx except the real Sphinx doesn't have huge black eyebrows. Finally, some low-heeled sandals.
Car keys. Purse. Action.
At number 40 Damocles Road there is no sign of Rhonda. I cruise past, find a park, walk up and down a while. There is Rhonda. And up in the garden behind her is a man, I assume her husband, watering the garden in his shorts and tee and sandals. He waves and grins. So I wave and grin and go over. Rhonda is dressed to kill and kisses my cheek and I kiss her cheek right back. 'How is everything darling?' she asks loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. Her husband continues to grin.
'Just fine thanks.'
Her husband calls down from the garden, 'You two have a nice time now. Huh?'
Alone with Rhonda in her car, I give her a long stare. The response to this is silence, nothing more. I say, 'What the hell was that about?'
'I thought what's-his-name wasn't supposed to know I exist.'
'You look so nice tonight.'
'Thank-you. I wasn't supposed to ever meet your husband.'
As something lost across wires and computer screens and office dividers, missed in rushed glances over meeting room tables, I hadn't thought to notice that Rhonda has the most beautiful hands. Here in real life and close up flesh-and-blood they are fluid and gentle and I want them on me. As she expresses silent emotion, or changes a gear, the fingers make looping figures. Too I notice how in front of her ears leading down the curve of her jaw line, there are velvety contours of fine blonde hair. Her nose twitches as she chews a lip contemplating a response to my last statement. But no answer comes. She simply shrugs. Take it or leave it.
'Where are we going,' she asks.
'To a bar first.'
Her neck has reddened.
'Rhonda, can you stop the car please. I want to kiss you before we get there.'
The car slows and Rhonda chooses a park, then moves on away from the street lamp. A little further, she safeties the car and sits motionless staring through the windshield.
Silence. Still-life. How surreal.
Her hands are wearing the symbolic jewellery of ownership and some other expensive pieces. The fingers are splayed along her thighs, stroking with fingertips. The knees under the navy pleated skirt are pressed together.
I pull her mouth around to mine. She admits my tongue, returns the kiss. I cup her breast registering warmth, weight, and a crisp lace bra probably new just for me. A tiny moan and my tongue probes deeper to make it clear that I wish it to be in the mouth between her legs. Remember, I am cast already by self-imposed reputation as The Predator. It is therefore natural that so early in our relationship I would press the heel of my palm over the pit of her protected groin.
'You obvously don't mind kissing a girl.'
She is getting the car back into traffic. Shrugs.
I wonder, 'Do you do this often?'
'You know I don't. That's why you are here.'
My heart is doing tom-toms because a moment ago when I asked Rhonda to stop the car and kiss me, she did. Oh fuck. My cunt is doing tom-toms because just now while we kissed I was imagining her tongue and lips first on my tits, then heading south. And that may actually happen. Oh fuck. Toes stretch and curl in sandals.
'You know,' she says, 'I really enjoyed all the stuff we talked about. Email. You know.'
'Anything in particular?' Like, some of my breast-bondage stories?
'All the kissing and hugging.'
The furry beast is still doing tom-toms as I direct her to the empty carpark way down and out of sight behind the bar premises. She manouvres the car into a dark corner and releases her seat belt, I mine. The car is compact and expensive—I don't notice brands. White and very sexy. Rhonda is staring off into the distance. We are facing a creeper-covered masonry wall. She does not resist as I lift the hem of her skirt. She does not resist as I stroke between her thighs. She does not resist as I go down and bite her mound and all around and over the top of the pulled-down crisp white lace panties, probably new just for me.
Now we're acquainted.
'Rhonda. We're going inside to have a couple of quiet drinks, settle ourselves down. Chat and stuff. Then we're going back to my house—no one will see us—and I will make love to you. If that's not OK with you, now's the time, really. Save us both a lot of time, trouble and heartache.'
A nicely delivered speech, considering one of her pubic hairs is lodged under my tongue.
'Before you know it, it'll be all over and you'll be home tucked up in bed with your favorite book and hubby. And if that's your thing you can even tell him all about it. Maybe you will. I'm sure he'll love it if you do.'
She nods, then shakes. 'No. He will never know about this. You're just a colleague and I'm helping you through a difficult time. That's all he knows.'
'So, he doesn't suspect anything when you put on your brand new out-of-the-box underwear to go comfort this poor little colleague?'
'Why would he suspect me with you?'
'He's a man. And they can smell a dyke a mile off.'
I'm not a dyke. Yet how do I explain why I am here for other than instinct? And how as a consequence of that instinct I seek and crave secret sex…
'Now. Can we get a move on?'
The awkward bar thing over, we are standing facing one another in my livingroom, candles lit and some incence (a love potion from my Sphinx-like aromatherapist) burning in the open doorway to the balcony. How nice. Ooh-Ahs over my decor disturb me and are gladly dispensed with. The night is balmy, perfect for comfortable nudity.
Rhonda is taller than me, shoulders square and high. Wide breasts (I'm jealous) of uneven sizes (how sexy) hang in fullness (weak at the knees). I suck and chew the nipple of one, finger the other. I can't tell her they are my first. Rhonda sighs softly, holds my breast on fingertips. Another unspeakable first.
Looping arms over shoulders, I bring her down to a long kiss. This time the returning kiss is more than an inert meshing of mouthparts. Our saliva is sweet from tossed-back cocktails. Lips are connected in a sensation that drives breast against breast, pelvis into pelvis. At first there is too much magic in this one moment of the kiss for it to be broken. Then bodily demands of another kind compete for our attention, finally consume us. We collapse to the rug.
Rhonda pulls me over onto her, between her legs. Her legs go out wide, curl around up and over and lock me with the ankles. Fine, if that's what she wants. I begin a slow motion, grinding up into her pussy. We kiss deep copulatory kisses, the kind my Ex used to give me when I was sure he was trying to lick his own balls via my oesophagus. In one of those odd moments of clarity I can forgive that urge…as I attempt to fuck Rhonda…without a penis…and here I am as compensation driving my tongue down her throat while I pound my pubis against where I'm assuming her clit to be. Then I am on my hands over her and nipple brushes nipple and she cries once and breaks the kiss and pulls my head down hard into her neck and shoulder with the grip of a mother gorilla. She comes in my ear.
'Rhonda…Sweetheart…I need air.'
Too, my other mouth is gasping, though not for air. With hands behind my head, eyes slitted dreamily, and the woolly rug prickling my ass, Rhonda's fingers stroke my thigh and the sensation is pleasant. Higher, inside my thigh she makes tiny circles whose orbits begin to brush my pussy hair. This is nice too. I throw out an arm. A leg. Lip departs from lip. I sigh then moan for her, spread, lift my pussy in beckoning poses.
It is about here that she ceases, having encountered my heavy wetness. Actually, plenty of it is her own. She discretely hides the fact that she's wiping her fingers behind us on my good rug. Then suddenly she says oh my god she hadn't realised it was so late and flinging on some clothes she makes a date with me for the next Friday evening, and out of breath tells me she can't wait. And please please don't desert her, and this was fantastic, and Oh God she needs to see me again, and Oh God can we meet again before next Friday…? If I'm not doing anything, you know…
How very confusing.
Anyhow, let me consult my diary. Tuesday it is.
So, just one more thing before you dash away, Cinderella. 'Rhonda. My car is at your house.'
Tuesday. It's a short walk from where, same as the previous week, I leave my car in a darkened cul-de-sac a block from her house. (Don't ask me why I do this. I have no answer.) It's after eight, and this time her husband's car is absent along with her absent husband. Fine. Rhonda answers the door in black blouse and camisole and beige slacks and open toed sandals. Her hair is not quite all up, provocative like the woman who has rushed from the bed of a lover. Except I can't quite believe that of my Rhonda. Anyhow, she looks delicious. One step inside the door her new perfume is Joop, my favourite, and it's everywhere, and I'm just about ready to shuck clothes and go round two right threre on the threshold.
Incidentally, Karin is by now in an absolute meltdown of jealousy and has ordered me to (a) jam my fingers in Rhoda's (sic) hole, and (b) make her really come. God I love that woman.
I accept Rhonda's offer of a relaxing gin and tonic and a little something to nibble. No, no tea. Thank-you.
We are awkward, the talk small. Fuck the unseasonably warm weather. Fuck the Middle East. Fuck the price of running a fucking car these days…How about we just fuck instead? No, I'm not really sorry for your best friend who has just separated from her husband. Instead, Rhonda, lets talk about how separated we can get your ankles.
So here's a few clues for you, my sweetheart: Me kicking off shoes. Me stroking calf against calf. Sighing a lot. Staring openly at the bumps of your nipples. Twirling my hair into ropes. Lip-licking after each sip of G&T. Thrusting out my tits and stretching languidly then leaving my thighs wide open. I'm not ashamed…After all, we're all sluts here.
The cabinet against the wall opposite the sofa is full of tarnished trophies: badminton, squash various divisions, tennis, netball. The wall next to the cabinet is a used car lot of pennant flags. As far as I can see, where "Rhonda" is mentioned on a prize, it also bears her maiden name.
'Do you need something a bit stronger?' she asks.
'No. I'm fine.'
'An intravenous orgasm please.'
She returns with a whisky tumbler for herself, sloshing the golden contents and ice. 'I've had two already before you arrived. Going to take advantage?'
I unbutton her blouse and unhook the centre clasp of the pretty new bra underneath, lift out each breast. Warm velvetiness swishes on my fingertips. I suck a sweet, sticky nipple. She trembles. I suck the other. Now its me who's trembling.
She sighs, 'Get comfortable in the bedroom?'
'Here's just fine.'
Here, away from where your husband sleeps, sweetheart.
'Let's go in the bedroom. I like to get comfortable.'
'How long have we got?'
'A couple of hours maybe.'
'OK then. Bedroom it is. But you've gotta be careful to clean up afterward…or there's no third act.'
It gives me the creeps. Hubby's favourite pillow on the right-handed-fuck side of the bed. His alarm clock. Saturday backyard watch. Some pens. Coins. A book or two. Financial magazines. A box of Man-Size tissues, I guess for wiping post-coital cock. A broken button laying abandoned near the bedlamp looks just so homely I could sob.
It really gives me the creeps. I am to have the right-handed-fuck side of their bed.
'I bought this stuff yesterday. Thought we might, you know…' She offers me a brown paper bag. Sex toys, I guess.
'Let's just consummate, huh? Then we'll get fancy.'
We assume the classic sixty-nine, me on top. I can feel her tongue back there having bravely overcome its fear of wetness. I spread her bush. I am greeted by happy little lips, and a pea-in-a-pod wet and pink and ready for the plucking. She's coming within minutes and the sound and motion of her pleasure lights my fuse and I'm off on an elevator of sympathetic orgasms. Sweetheart Rhonda is an absolute natural, fingertip breeching my ass, or fingernail on my clit, just when it really matters. I come hard and loud. We fall apart, panting. Rhonda grins wet-faced.
'That's was—uh—quite good.'
I've hardly had time to come back to earth and she's on her knees, shaking out her hair which is tousled seductively. Humming softly, she swings torso and breast, cheeks flushed and eyes bright and moist and as sparkly as the Milky Way on a clear winter's night. I could swear she's in love.
She wonders, 'Got any ideas?'
'You know. Special ideas.'
'Can you get dirty?'
'Well, I guess.'
'Like in your stories? Or was that all just a lot of talk and that.'
'I can do that stuff.'
'Ron is shy…you know…'
'Oh really? I didn't know.'
She has now officially seduced my Heroine Syndrome. In my spare time I rescue horny Damsels from bed-death, which somehow, incidentally, rescues me from mine.
Well, that's how my daytime fantasy goes.
And she's crouched so…openly. Hm, a cunt posed demandingly. Let's see what we can do. There are devices for this kind of emergency. 'Spread your knees honey. That's it. A little wider…'
Who would have thought that for such a big athletic girl, she'd have such a compact arrangement. I spread her open. Dirty girls like to be spread. I push three fingers knuckle deep and screw, one finger for me, one for Rhonda, and one for Karin. Dirty girls love to be screwed.
My very bad Rhonda on hands and knees pushes against the thrusts of my fingers. She swings her hair to the jungle rhythm of our bodies. I have a taste of her. Bite her ass cheeks. Smack one and smack the other and she makes soft, agreeable noises. She drops her head in willing submission to this. In the brown paper bag huddle a nun's ransom worth of dildos and vibrators. A silver bullet-shaped one hums with a twist. I make it hum as hard as it will go and rub it up and down her slit. She is wet and hungry. I stroke her little asshole and she squirms away like a lady. But then, of course, she squirms right back.
'Can anyone see in that window?' The curtains are wide open.
'Too high,' she breaths. 'Trees…'
Getting into it now, Rhonda crouches with her head buried into a pillow, ass in the air. She's moaning and clawing away at the candlewicked bedspread. I have goosebumps all over.
Sensing that she is close I bring the vibrator out and watch her body undulate. 'Oh.. no…please…' A hand comes out from underneath, rubbing hard and fast.
It would be about now in our remote lovemaking that Karin would slow things up with little commands like, 'Pull you fingers away Darling.' Razor-sharpen the appetites, as she puts it. Rhonda is there now, on that razor's edge, body aglow and taut with sexual tension. She pants. She whimpers at every touch. I let her watch as I suck the tips of two dildos, one for her, one for me. She says, 'Oh God that's so wonderful…' I stuff it ball deep into her pussy. I spread my pussy for her and calmly like a triage nurse she performs the same simple operation of inserting the other dildo up into me.
All better now.
Oh yes, Rhonda Sweetheart…that hits the spot. Now, come right over here and just bite my nipples…
The Big Switch goes off for both of us. Caught out like this the best we can do is attempt a kiss, a crude bashing of lips that we give up as we come and come. And come harder. And louder. And wetter. And screw ourselves with our fingers and fat dildos…for what must be the best part of a whole hour.
Then seemingly in no time at all, there's no time left. As we dress Rhonda interupts now then for a kiss, to stroke my breast, to pull my hand under between her thighs. At the front door the lights are off and in the darkness I kiss her goodbye.
The night air outside is fresh and awakens in me a new appetite. Before the stroll back to my car I loiter at the scene of the crime. I find a dark place to sit on her front garden wall and contemplate life and love and all that goes with it. I'll admit I am almost overwhelmed by all these new sensations and all the new information I now have about myself, and Rhonda. The lingering memory of Joop and other warm garden-perfumes surround me. I find a cigarette in the bottom of my bag.
Mind a blank. Then visions…And words and freight cars of recollections flashing through my mind…How is this. Is this right? Is that all? How do I know? Feeling Rhonda's tongue. One sensation starting from the head. Another from the toes. I remember understanding—at the point of orgasm watching her lick me—how these sensations travel at the speed of blood. And how they collide in the middle for me and for her and why Rhonda opens her cunt and presses it hard down on my face and cries like its the only thing she's ever lived for. Because in a way, it is. And that's how I know this is right.
Behind me there are noises. I am alert in time before flicking the cigarette lighter and revealing my presence. On instinct, I retreat deeper into the shadows and abstain my breath. Fear and alarm prickle all over my skin until I realise that the dark shape emerging from the garden over there is Rhonda's husband. From near the upstairs still-lighted bedroom…where Rhonda and I have just fucked…out he comes carrying a stepladder, getting it all tangled up in garden boughs and swearing and spinning around and around in circles on the front lawn like a lunatic.
The phone purrs on my ear for quite a while before a just-woken-sounding Rhonda answers.
'Hello?' she says.
'Hi Rhonda. It's me, Edith. Go fuck yourself.'
© 2008 Cherry Black. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
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