• Queer Fiction
• Kinky Erotica
• 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
Every morning, as I leave my apartment, there is something new by the dumpster. I can't decide if it's trash or guerilla art. Today it's a small TV coated in white paint, a deranged naked barbie on top. Words have been scratched expertly onto the screen: They can't control what they can't define.
A cool green mist settles over Seattle every spring. It glows this time of morning, when the sun would be rising, as I walk over the bridge to work. I leave early to avoid the crowds of aimless, dazed men that gather throughout the industrial district once the busses start up. I am apparently everything to them: mama, baby, sister, and sweetheart.
At this hour the grey streets are silent and I'm still dreaming. Only the darkest coffee cuts through this lush mist.
I'm always the first person at Roma, and this morning I open the door onto bitter, clove-scented steam and Jimi Hendrix at top volume. Avi comes out, black eyes sparkling. His dreadlocks are fatter and wilder every time I see him but they only make his smooth caramel-colored face look more angelic. Avi and I met ten years ago on tour with a modern company. When his bad knee finally gave way soon after, his lover taught him three chords and he's since become the Adonis of local music clubs.
"Marta, sweetie!" he sings over the music, "Coffee?"
"Avi," I start, but I just can't continue. He tilts his head at me. "The feedback Avi, oh my god ." He runs back after the music has been turned down and I take my first deep breath of the day. We're both laughing. In our morning ritual, he fills my thermos with coffee and waves away the money that I eventually stuff in his tip jar.
I'm pouring my cream and sugar when the door opens again. Cool air brings the mixed scents of rose and bergamot. I smile a little to myself and wish that more people wore perfume. When the scent grows stronger I notice the silence. I turn and she's looking at me.
I see her mouth first, plump and sweetly shaped. I can't help smiling back. Her eyes are tilted and bright, glinting with hazel lights. She wears her blonde hair in a trim little bob, smoothed around her heart-shaped face. Her cheeks are dewy and peach-colored. Envy twists in me a little when I notice her skin, pale and velvety as if rubbed in powder every morning. Even standing still, her solid curves seem to sway in a small dance.
She's still there. I begin to search my mind for a reason.
"Were we in school together?" I ask. She laughs, but her eyes stay on mine.
"No," she says steadily. "This just looks like a nice place to have coffee."
She is watching me with a bright, expectant smile, as if it were my birthday and she planned to surprise me with a cake. The boldness in her face is becoming a delicious challenge; does she think I can't meet it?
Avi returns to his counter and his elaborate pantomime of surprise makes us both freeze, eyes closed for several silent beats. "Now, I can't believe you two have never met. Jessy, Marta used to dance, too. You both probably know a lot of the same people ..." He trails off as we stare darkly at him.
It's like a bad sitcom. Jessy is laughing. I turn away, stirring my coffee slowly as I hear her order. There's a lightness to her voice that makes my neck tingle. We leave the shop at the same time.
"I'm glad we met," her smile is softer and her eyes narrow at me. Her face is dark pink in the cold, her red scarf sets off her gleaming white teeth. I'm still speechless when she runs a mittened hand deliberately down my arm. It's a common girly gesture among friends, but it becomes a delicate parody when she runs just the tip of her dark, wet tongue along her upper lip. It glistens. I think she's trying to shock me.
"Jessy, please come here again tomorrow."
The sweetness turns to uneasiness as I walk away. Women don't usually come on to me anymore and I'm never prepared for it. I've been on my own for nearly a year now since Mark finished law school and decided a job in Boston was ultimately more appealing than me, the roommate he slept with. After eight years with Mark, it took me a few months to adjust to being single again. I eventually remembered the game with men: Diversion followed by sex followed by unfailing, lighthearted civility. Other women excite me and confuse me. I've had many quiet crushes, but the sweetness that rises from them sometimes makes me so lightheaded. I'm afraid I'll black out.
Ten years ago, my friend Karina and I became lovers in a smooth, irresistible courtship. At first we felt like we alone had truly discovered ecstasy. We spent long afternoons naked in my tapestried dorm room, teasing each other into deeper releases. I would let her pussy swell into my mouth for hours. As the months went by, I realized Karina was becoming obsessed with the meaning of it all, researching lesbians, seeking code that would give us a place in the world. I became crankier and more distant as she reworked her entire degree; she received grant after grant to prove that women made love in ancient Egypt, in China, during the Renaissance. Sex became earnest and perfunctory. The anxiety finally took on a sharp, suffocating edge.
"I don't care if we're the first women to ever think of getting off together or not," I still remember her black eyes snapping sparks at me as I spoke. I know now my heart was breaking because of what we'd already lost. "If someone is going to be disgusted by it, no airtight, well-annotated fucking five-point plan of defense is going to change that."
We saw much less of each other after that day.
The sharp glints in Jessy's eyes are vivid in my mind throughout the morning. I'm in court, interpreting for three tedious depositions, trying not to fidget at the cold table. There are long pauses in my interpreting, when the clients go off the record for screaming matches. As I look out the window I see Jessy's swaying curves. Her endless small dance. Later in the day, her image is not fading. I'm sitting uselessly at my desk, running my pen along my neck to my collarbone and bouncing a little in my chair.
At night, the tight, burning thread of lust has returned to my dreams without any warning. I want to feel every part of Jessy's sly fleshy body, hold her here in the dark bed with me while I lap her from her velvety neck to the strange, hot, salty petals between her legs. I want to tie her thighs apart, spread her labia flat like a pinned butterfly. My hips move until my back aches but I don't let myself come.
The next morning I'm late because I've spent ten minutes smoothing make-up under my eyes. Even though the café is deserted, she is ensconced in a tiny, red-painted nook lined with new paintings. Her face is pale when she turns to me and bites her lip. Shame and uncertainty flicker starkly through her eyes for a second. Avi repairs to his kitchen.
Her smile has become tighter and more wicked. I run my hands over her neck and when she closes her eyes I sit down. Her hair is pulled back and I'm watching the cool shadows along her temples and cheekbones as she speaks.
"I saw you here last weekend," she's saying. "I know you don't remember me; you were all wrapped up in your paper. And I was hiding. I asked about you after you left and Avi said you weren't with anyone." She's leaning into me and whispering.
Thanks, Avi. This stings me a little, as if all you have to do is make sure the parking space is empty before you drive on in.
"Now you're annoyed. Marta. Don't be, don't be. I think you're beautiful." My mouth is dry but my cunt pulses. I'm not sure when she took my hands but she is turning them over thoughtfully and caressing them with her deft little golden fingers. When she brings one of my hands to her lips, I sigh her name and she smiles. Her tongue feels the way I dreamt it would, soft and hot. I open my eyes again when I feel her brush my hair from my face. "I mean, look at you."
She laughs. When her small cheeks rise, her eyes become strangely dark. She reaches across the rickety table and starts to unzip my heavy leather jacket, the smile lingering. As if this were the most normal and friendly thing in the world to do. Her clear, steady eyes finally unnerve me. The café is still empty but shadows pass beyond the windows. I watch the door. I can't move.
She spreads the top of the jacket open carefully. I'm not sure what my intent is when I reach for her hand but she puts both of my hands firmly back on the table. She reaches under the left side and pulls out my breast, covered in the white silk of my new blouse. Two fingers trace the nipple in feathery circles. She tilts her head to watch, murmuring softly as if coaching, "Yes, that's right, a little more, nice and tight."
She takes out the right breast and then pauses to wet her fingers with her tongue. She strokes the nipple with just her thumb and forefinger, pinching it softly, making damp tracks in the silk. She is murmuring again, "There you go. Lovely." She zips the jacket up again and straightens the collar. She leans forward on her elbows, biting her lower lip. Her teeth are like a cat's. Her feet, under the table, push mine steadily against the legs of my chair. My panties, my slip, my skirt are wet and will smell sharply like cunt for the rest of the day.
I'm panting. She notices and her smile is wider.
"It's probably been too long." Her bravado breaks for a moment and I see fear again. "Come here." Her voice is small.
I lean into her glowing face. Her lips are bitter from the coffee. I pull them in a little, running my tongue over their full curves. Their lushness makes me squirm. I hold her head, my palms over her cheekbones, so that she cannot move away before I'm finished. Bracing my legs into the chair, I fight the urge to grab tight handfuls of her hair. She is utterly still, letting me kiss her, and I feel her lashes flutter against my cheek.
I'm biting her luscious lower lip now and she doesn't move away even though she jerks a little with the pain. I break the kiss to look at her. When she's flushed I can see a spread of golden freckles. Her hair gives off a damp, grassy smell as I run my fingertips along her scalp.
"Marta," she is struggling to stay coy and possessed. She pours the rest of my coffee into my thermos and screws on the lid. "You're going to be late for work, aren't you? I have a performance tonight, at CommStudio. I put you on the list. Come see us. You'll know a lot of people there." She speaks quickly. Her hands are shaking.
I haven't answered yet. She lifts her butt out of her seat to lean close into me, blond wisps tickling my face. "Pretty please, pretty please." She laps up the side of my neck four times. I moan sharply because I feel it in my clit.
Avi comes out in time to see me kiss her, drinking in her damp breath again before I leave.
I can't take off my jacket at work because of the obscene marks over my right breast. I'm too hot, I can't stand it. The perfume that was so light on her seems cloying on my skin. I get myself off in the bathroom three times. Each time I'm ashamed afterwards, furtive and bleary-eyed on my way back to my desk. I bite my palm, trying to focus, but there is only the vision of her pink naked body, sweating and coming under me.
I slip into her performance as the second act begins. CommStudio's uneven rehearsal space doubles as a performance venue, and tonight the bleachers are dark and crowded. Someone offers me space on a thin pillow.
Jessy's performing with a man and their bodies are flooded in hot white light. In this small space, you can see their sweat gleam and their eyes narrow under the cheap colored gels. The score is a Varese-inspired disjointed melody, laced with cricket chirpings. They move in a simple and tender phrase. Jessy is a genius with her body, effortlessly falling through the choreography and absorbing the music through calm green eyes.
She had insisted I come over; she had cooked for me. Her apartment is a tiny, concrete-floored loft that she's covered with pillows and carpets.
We have long since finished dinner and are sitting on opposite ends of her white couch, drinking wine and talking. Her bare feet are still covered in dust and baby powder, her body damp and gritty. She is wearing the yellow dress she had changed into and probably nothing underneath.
I expected that we would find a pretext to move together initially, one of the natural exchanges that women always share: a massage, a casual caress of the hair. Instead she turns towards me during a pause in conversation and pours more wine in her glass. She stands and walks to me, standing over me for a nervous moment, then straddling my legs and sliding into my lap. Her hair is wavy when it's tousled and she looks down at me, licking her lips. I am already wet and I can smell that she is too. Her scent is stronger and spicier than mine. I can't see into the shadows under her dress.
"So," she begins and her smile becomes tense and purposeful, "I think I want to see your breasts." I grasp her hips in my hands, massaging into the taut muscles. Her white thighs squeeze my waist. She is sliding my dress off my shoulders with one hand, pulling the material down around my stomach. I run my hands up her plump arms and her skin is so petal-soft it seems unreal.
Her other hand splashes the wine carefully over each breast. When she's finished, she drops the wine glass on the rug and begins massaging the wine into me. I lie back onto the couch and she giggles as my hips start moving under her. Soon my nipples are burning so intensely they turn numb. She stops and tests them with three quick pinches. The burning reaches into my stomach.
My hands are on her back and my fingers dig into the sweating, slippery flesh. Her shoulders tilt to one side, then the other as she pulls her straps down. Her breasts are cool and pale, with pink nipples that become darker and smaller as I watch them. Her sleek body seems to have no bones. I grip her wide shoulders as best I can, holding her still while I violently suck on these perfect, stiff nipples.
She pulls me into the dark bedroom and pushes me onto the futon. She slides her dress over her hips and turns towards her dresser. Her long back glows in the darkness, ending in two dimples over her heart-shaped ass.
Her light pubic hair is trimmed so close it barely covers her. When she walks towards me the light glances over the glistening insides of her thighs. She leans over me, letting her breasts brush onto mine. My mouth is open and I'm waiting to taste her again.
"Lie still," the whisper comes from her shadowed face. There is still laughter in her voice. She's stronger than I expected when she rolls me to my stomach and pulls my arms behind me. It's not a random silk scarf but a length of proper rope that she's brought from her dresser. She expertly ties my wrists together. I realize with a shock that she's planned this. I laugh into the pillow.
When I'm on my back again my tight wrists are nestled under the small of my back. I can't pull them apart; I try.
I close my eyes as she leaves and comes back, padding over the cool floor. My lungs contract a little when the wine splashes on my belly first, then between my breasts to my neck. The last splashes onto the dark curling hair over my cunt. I feel it trickling down through the labia, over my anus, and pooling on the bedspread under me. She stretches out over me, laying her weight carefully along my bound, arched body, resting her hips finally on mine. Our breasts push together, tight wet nipples just grazing each other at the tips. We're anchored by our pubic bones while our legs move like slow, restless seagrass.
The skin of her round belly clings to me. Her lilac perfume is being overpowered by a salty, musky, overripe smell with a hint of tanginess to it, like blood. The smell rises from the back of her neck, just behind her ears, and I run my tongue over the skin when I can reach it. I know the taste is even stronger in her cunt.
The wine spreads between us as she moves more quickly. It warms both of us. When she tilts her pelvis forward, her hot labia press against the top of my mons. It's not enough but we writhe into each other, finding a quick rhythm. I try to shift my thigh into her slippery crotch but she sits up and moves quickly to kneel beside me. I'm twisting violently now and I hear myself whispering her name, cursing and begging.
"Do you feel this in your cunt?" Her hand is moving along the back of my neck very lightly. She strokes behind my ear. When she leans to slip her tongue inside my ear, my opposite shoulder tingles. She runs the soft tongue along my collarbone and the small of my back burns.
She pauses to kiss me forcefully and then laps gently at the base of my throat. The tendons and veins shift under her tongue. I have to move my shoulders from side to side to make it more bearable. My breath hurts me now and I can't answer when she asks me, "What about that, do you feel that in your cunt? Focus now."
She closes her mouth over my nipples, pulling them into painfully long red peaks. She pushes my breasts together so that the nipples are almost touching and runs her tongue steadily over them, biting them one by one. My cunt is on fire. My legs are bent, my feet pressing on the bed as I lift and thrust my hips. I try to cross my legs tightly together but she laughs and slaps me hard on my pubic bone.
My moans turn to shrieks when she moves to lift my thighs onto her shoulders. She kneels between my legs and runs her tongue and fingers over my cunt. It's like kitten paws on my skin, and I'm pushing into her, trying to sit up. She turns her head sideways and pulls the skin away from the clit before covering it in tiny, sure licks. Two fingers inside me move forcefully like a cock at first, then separate into slow spirals. She's tickling all along the inner flesh. She licks harder and a few seconds later the come rushes from my feet to the crown of my head. I'm afraid I will break the bed frame. Afterwards, I shudder for a long time as her mouth stays on me. I see the top of her head moving slowly as she sucks the rest of the juices out.
My wet hair falls over my face as she fumbles with the rope. My arms are numb and slow but I can lift them around her. My hands come back to life on her slick hips and I reach to stroke her pussy. The heel of my palm fits over the top of her cleft. She leans into me and comes right away, bucking violently.
She is lying unconscious in the dark and I realize I am still restless inside. I remember the shame she tried to hide with coyness and I have to push her beyond it, to find the release on the other side. In her sleepy haze, she barely notices when I lift her wrists over her head. I tie them together and fasten the end of the rope to the headboard. She realizes she's pinned as I get up, and she starts cooing at me to return. I want to see what's taken hold of me so completely.
She gasps sharply when the overhead light goes on. I look around and find an adjustable desk lamp. I place it by the foot of the bed and direct it towards her flushed ass. She's managed to turn over partly, hiding her eyes. I pull on her ankles and spread them towards the foot of the bed, unwinding her spine so that it's flat against the bedspread. "Hold still. If I see that ass again I'll smack it."
I think she wants me to tie her ankles as well, so that she can lose herself completely, but I want to test her a little. I stand up to stuff a pillow under her hips, then adjust the light so that it shines right between her legs.
The sight of her stretched cunt makes me breathless. I kneel at the foot of the bed and massage her outstretched ankles. The fat outer lips have spread easily, pulling the light curling hair away from the red, fluted inner lips. I'm amazed at how desire can transform our bodies from pale, grotesque forms into masterpieces of heat and color. Her musk fills the room and she glistens in the harsh light. Her inner lips push out towards me in an obscene pout and I realize she's lengthening inside. Her clit is an angry little bud.
"Don't move your legs," I say thickly, sliding my hands up her thighs and jumping onto the bed. I crouch low and let the backs of my fingers trail over her wide, pulsing slit. I lean to suck the top of her labia into my mouth, squeezing them over her clit. I tease her lips open with my fingers and tiny muscles clench at me.
"You want to be fucked?" She is motionless except for a deep, controlled shuddering. I push three of my fingers into her without warning and she squeals. Before she can move away, I fit my mouth over her clit and nurse it softly. I'm not sure she even notices when I force my thumb into her squeezing ass. She breaks into a rhythm and her pelvic muscles nearly crush my hands when she starts to come. She sounds like a cat in agony; low, sustained moans seem to vibrate through her writhing torso.
My head is heavy on her belly. She twitches when her dreams begin and we are both startled awake. The light hurts us. I untie her, turn off the lights, and as I'm massaging her arms we fall fast asleep.
I wake up late the next morning with Jessy's smooth fingers already deep inside me and her sleepy mouth at my breasts. They are very understanding at work when I call in sick.
"Avi will wonder where we are," I say as she rolls her warm body on top of me. Her soft, sparkling eyes are inches from mine.
"No, I don't think he will," Jessy breathes into my hair. I stretch under her.
© 2003 Teresa Lamai. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Copyright © 1996 and on, Erotica Readers Association, Inc.
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