Wild Nights

by Therese Szymanski

  “I could always . . . help you out.” I’m proud of my voice—deep and melodious, soothing yet exciting. Or, well, I hope that’s how it sounds to her.

  She blinks at me, but even as I watch, her pupils get huge. Oh, yeah—at least part of her wants this. Wants me. Wants to feel good. I scoot a little closer and put one hand on her knee.

  “What are you doing?” she whispers. Half-scared, half-curious —the anger is suddenly gone. Progress.

  “Seeing if you’ll let me touch you,” I reply evenly, massaging the muscles just above her joint. “I’d really like to show you what you’re missing,” I continue, unable to resist a smirk. “I bet you’ll like it, too.”

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  Copyright © 2006 by Bella Books. Contributors retain the rights to their individual pieces of work.

  Bella Books, Inc.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First Edition

  Editor: Therese Szymanski

  Cover designer: Stephanie Solomon-Lopez

  ISBN 978-1-59493-069-0

  Dedication

  For all of the many beautiful lesbians around the world, all living and having their own (mostly) true adventures every day.

  Acknowledgments

  Once again, I would like to thank all my friends who helped me with this endeavor, most especially Barbara Johnson and Joy Parks, as well as those who came through with after-deadline stories I begged for when I took over this project, most particularly, Victoria A. Brownworth, Karin Kallmaker, Joy Parks and Radclyffe. (As someone said, I ought to acknowledge as many femmes as possible.)

  I would also like to thank Bella’s incredible staff and its talented proofreaders, Ruth Stanley and Pam Berard, without whom I’d not have the confidence to think I could actually edit.

  True Fiction:

  Where Reality Meets Fantasy

  When I sat down to edit this book, I started by thinking about the ever-increasing number of true-story anthologies published in the past several years. Why the interest in such books? Why so many of the same type of books and stories? And, finally, what sets “true” anthologies apart from collections of tales on other topics?

  The answer I kept coming up with was simple: Voyeurism. People get a thrill out of living vicariously through others. They like to have the adventures without the risk. They also like to see how the other side lives—and with true stories, they feel as if they might have a chance at doing the same things. In fact, such stories might even give them ideas as to what they might want to, or might actually, try themselves. Or with a partner.

  I’ve read a few true-story anthologies myself and always assumed that most stories were not, in fact, true. In editing this book and e-mailing with the various contributors, I’ve been surprised to discover just how many of these tales are indeed true. Or at least mostly true. (I can only guess that many authors in this collection heated up the sex just a touch— including yours truly.)

  What I realized, however, in reading through the hundreds of stories submitted to this book was that a great many of the very finest and most delightful tales of heated and exciting lesbian sex were told in a particular voice (first-person POV, for those who are curious). I reckon this sort of telling excites the reader more than a detached third-person narrative, and is also much more intimate and believable. I found such tales to be especially compelling, interesting, and heated—so I decided to include only first-person stories in this book.

  After all, if you were telling a true story, wouldn’t you use the “I” word and say it in your own voice about yourself?

  I did, however, decide to break one of my own primary rules and include two stories by the same author in this book so that I have the final word (finally) in one of my anthologies: The final story is told in a decidedly… different… voice than any other in this book. I’ve included this tale because it gets right to the heart of the voyeuristic matter while, perhaps, poking a teasing finger at it.

  But don’t take any of this the wrong way: This book is meant to turn you on. That is its single purpose. That is what it’s meant for—its sole reason for being.

  I hope it serves its purpose well and that you enjoy it. And I’ll be even happier if it drives you to appreciate some aspects of life a little more. This is a book that shows how reality can live up to your wildest expectations—even if it’s just through your imagination, with perhaps a little help from some others . . .

  Reese Szymanski

  Backstage

  Karin Kallmaker

  She’s looking at me again. I can feel it.

  She should be using her eyes for her job. It irritates me that I can feel her gaze running across my bare shoulders the same way it did when I met with her before the evening began. It’s distracting and I don’t need some damned butch boy looking at me like this.

  I tuck my cell phone back into my miniscule evening bag as I give my assistant the bad news. Our keynote speaker is going to be forty-five minutes late. She hurries off to tell the stage manager while I make my way toward my boss. Four months of careful planning of the evening’s agenda have been undone by airport fog. He’ll have to deal with it.

  All the while I know she’s looking at me. What’s her game, anyway? I pause for a moment to shower more thanks on one of our VIPs. I’m caught between the magic of being a lowly meeting planner who gets to talk to a two-time Oscar winner and the sickening dread in my stomach that there is still enough time left in the evening for things to go wrong. I don’t need a security guard’s smoky gaze burning the back of my neck.

  I steal another look at her.

  I only look because I want to let her know that I don’t appreciate the cheap come on. But on the way to her face I linger on the broad shoulders so effectively framed by her suit jacket. I study them too long. When my gaze meets hers she is mocking me, knowing I was looking.

  Then that hot look drops to my gown, making me acutely aware of the thin silk and tight bodice. It pales next to those of the invited guests. Our guests include women of vast personal wealth, actresses, lobbyists, entertainers, prime-time journalists and sports stars. My gown might be Vera Wang, but it’s the only one here that was bought off the rack.

  The tennis bracelet I dropped a month’s salary on wouldn’t pay for a half an earring on most of these women. It doesn’t take a fashion consultant to discern that I must be hired help. She’s looking at me like I’m an hors d’oeuvre. I can’t let her get to me. She doesn’t know anything about me and she shouldn’t be looking at me as if she does.

  But my eyes are drinking in the way she moves.

  My conversation with my boss is short, the number of tasks I must see to grows. Raising money is an art form and my job is preparing the canvas where the artists persuade the donors to get out their checkbooks. I need to keep an eye on the champagne and buffet tables, watch the circulating waiters, let the orchestra know they’re playing for another thirty minutes, tell the hotel manager to get his people set on removing abandoned glasses and plates, find the other two speakers who will now go ahead of the keynoter, notify the Development Director about the change in plans, and all in the next twelve seconds. I remind myself to smile and always appear to be In Control.

  I do not need . . . my nerves are at their limit. I don’t want her gaze tracing lines across my body. I’m abruptly too aware of how tight and low the strapless bodice of my gown is.

  She st
arted it.

  It was a brief conversation, just a quick review of the contract for the security crew and a confirmation of the placements I’d mapped out with the head of the firm. I had a million details to see to in less than thirty minutes, and I hadn’t really looked at the person who would be the main floor security supervisor for the night. I gave my spiel and started to leave when she murmured in a voice of velvet, “I’ll keep you safe and sound, don’t worry.”

  That’s when I realized the slender short-haired figure belonged to a woman. Startled, I’d looked right into her eyes just as her fingertip brushed the crook of my elbow, leaving me with the breathless sensation of being naked. I don’t have time for her. Not now, I had thought, as I stalked off to my next task.

  She says something into the radio strapped to her wrist, then heads in my direction. Damn her. I’m just overkeyed. I’ve worked on this night for the last six months, to the exclusion of everything. Everything.

  God, she walks toward me like she owns me. The closer she gets the more she doesn’t look at me. Her gaze scans the crowd. She wouldn’t be part of the detail the security firm supplied if she wasn’t good at her job. No hint of mockery remains. She’s humorless and remote as she reminds me the detail has hit the two-hour mark and they’ll begin short break rotations. People who have to pee don’t focus very well.

  I nod. I can be distant, too. Her eyes are almost black. I feel the room still for a moment as she shifts her shoulders. Her arms curve slightly and I can’t breathe. It makes no sense. It’s—not going to happen. It can’t. Not tonight. I don’t need this, her. I open my mouth to ask her to stop and realize I can’t tell her what she’s doing to me. The orchestra has segued to the theme from “Laura” and though she hasn’t moved, her eyes say she wants to dance with me. Her eyes say she wants more than dancing. I—I have work to tend to. Damn her. I want to say, “Later, go away, I don’t know.”

  I’d have to kiss her to know for sure.

  I hurry away and I can tell she is watching me walk. What am I thinking? It’s just nerves, all the planning. An agenda shake-up is a pain, but a minor problem. I’ll get to keep my job if that’s the only blip of the evening. I forget about her, almost, but I feel her watching me. I catch her at it a couple of times. Those eyes.

  The keynote speaker shows up and speeches are over without a hitch. The orchestra leaves, the rock band turns up the volume, the guests seem eager to stay. The ballroom sparkles with jewels and laughter. My boss looks calm but pleased. Checkbooks have opened.

  Midnight. The party starts to wind down and I can’t stop thinking about how her arms might feel around me.

  I’m half-drunk. I haven’t eaten since lunch and two glasses of champagne—one with my boss, one with my own staff—have left me giddy. By one a.m., the big names have left and those who remain are dancing to the band to the exclusion of all other activity. The honorary event committee chairwoman is complimenting my work as I stand at the edge of the dance floor.

  Someone stops near me, at a discreet distance. I am suffused with heat.

  The chairwoman takes her leave and I turn away. The high of the evening is waning, and part of me doesn’t want it to end. I’m already thinking about the next fundraiser, the guest list, who we might be able to bag for it.

  Her voice is like velvet. “My shift is over.”

  “Lucky you.” She doesn’t look at all tired from hours of standing on alert. She could run a marathon, I’ll bet. Meanwhile, I know my shoulders are drooping and my expression weary.

  “You don’t even get to dance?”

  I shake my head. “I could, I suppose.” Some of my staff have been on the floor for thirty minutes. I feel funny about joining them, of letting go after being In Control for so long.

  I finally realize she is holding out her hand. She isn’t asking.

  I don’t know how to dance to rock and roll in a floor-length Vera Wang gown. If I take her hand, dance with her, it might lead to . . . I have a suite upstairs, compliments of the hotel, all to myself . . . I can’t do this in front of my boss, in front of my staff.

  God, that voice. “Have mercy on me.”

  Her hands are on my hips as she draws me onto the dance floor. I put my hands on top of hers, thinking I’m going to remove them, I’m going to escape. Her gaze burns its way down my body and my dress feels two sizes too small. My irritation from earlier in the evening comes back. I’m not an appetizer to be devoured in public. There’s no mercy in me.

  I roll my shoulders forward to give her a good long look down my dress. When her gaze finally climbs back up to my face she meets my defiant eyes.

  I haven’t disconcerted her in the least, that much is plain.

  “That dress was made to torment me.” Her hands are moving my hips. I don’t know the song. I let her lead me, feeling dizzy, my hands still on top of hers.

  She spins me in place and when I’m facing her again my crotch is against hers and her hands have moved from my hips to the small of my back.

  She wants to kiss me. If she kisses me, I’ll know for sure.

  Her leg is between mine and I catch myself before I grind down on her thigh. I won’t give in to the usual butch move. We sway for a few minutes. I can feel her breath on my shoulder. Her hands pull my hips into her and I realize I am exhausted and very, very wet.

  She can’t kiss me here. I don’t want my colleagues, my boss—I don’t want anyone to see what this beautiful butch is doing to my composure. I can’t take her up to my room. I haven’t even kissed her.

  Her fingertips run up my back as if she is learning how the dress will come off of me. I can’t remember my room number. I’d have to get out the card the hotel gave me. Everyone would see. I need to kiss her now. I don’t know what to do.

  Her voice can burn me. “Meet me backstage.”

  I watch her go, my head feeling so hot I wonder if I’m sick. She walks like she has an assignment, disappearing past the band and into the darkness behind the staging area.

  I get two gin and tonics from the bar, tucking one into the folds of my skirt while I sip from the other. Is everyone watching me follow in her wake? Another sip, then I am in the semi-darkness, working my way past the band’s empty amp cases and the strewn leftover decorations. The dark figure turns to me as I join her.

  “I brought us drinks.” My voice sounds unnaturally calm. I can hardly hear myself over the pounding of blood in my ears.

  She reaches for the glass I offer, but doesn’t drink. She takes the other glass, too, and sets both on the floor. She unstraps the radio from her wrist and pulls off the earpiece. Off duty. I’m not off duty. Anyone could be looking for me. The party is only a few feet away, at the edge of the darkness that hides us.

  In a rush that takes my breath away, she pushes me onto the case behind me. My toes are barely on the floor. Her hands are gripping my waist as she leans into me.

  She’s going to kiss me. She’s going to have me.

  The sounds of the party are all around me. Someone laughs. Footsteps fade as they cross the stage.

  I wait for her to take the kiss, her lips inches from mine. But she doesn’t. I have to ask.

  I’m moaning and I can’t stop.

  “What do you want?”

  “Kiss me.” I need her lips against my mouth.

  Her hands sweep over my shoulders to twine around my neck. Her kiss is ferocious, possessive. Her thigh is between my legs as her tongue makes my mouth hers. I can’t breathe, I don’t need to breathe. I cup the back of her neck and return her kiss. It’s yes. It has to be yes with a kiss like this.

  “If you wait in my room I could join you in an hour,” I murmur when she releases my mouth. I don’t know how much time has passed, but the kisses were long as she learned my responses.

  I am pleased she is slightly out of breath. “That seems like a good idea.”

  I should go back to the party now but my hands are pulling up my skirt. Her lips come to mine in a fever, her thigh churn
ing against the soaked crotch of my panty hose. My wet is going to smear all over her pants. Everyone will know she had me.

  I can’t wait for another hour.

  Nearby, two voices shout over the music about directions to an after-hours club. My skirt is around my waist and her fingers have found the zipper in the back of the dress. She pulls it down part way and the bodice loosens enough for her to free my breasts.

  Her teeth find my hardening nipples as her hand plunges between my legs, pressing the fabric of my panty hose hard against my clit. I have to open my legs wider for her. Not here, I’m thinking, this is dangerous, and I squirm to push down my panty hose, to get rid of the barrier between her fingers and my hungry, eager cunt.

  She puts her hands on my knees, pushing them even farther apart. I feel like a river.

  “Take what you want,” I tell her, feeling disbelief deep down in my mind at the degree of my surrender.

  She’s on her knees in front of me. I have my hands in her hair. I’m on tiptoe, trying to hold still, but at the touch of her tongue between my legs I move against her mouth, giving myself to her. It feels so good to have her know that I am soaked for her. I hold my scream in my throat, shivering with the effort.

  The music almost drowns out her words. Damn her, she knows what I am, what I can be when I let go.

  “We both know what you have to have now.”

  My nails are in her scalp as I feel one finger slide into me only to slowly withdraw and be replaced by another. She tells me how wet I am. Her tongue goes back to flicking over my clit, a steady pulse that leaves my shoulders shaking.

  One finger becomes two. I don’t know where this will stop. The band is saying goodnight. I want to scream. I want her to fuck me. I hold my dress up with one hand while the other reaches between my legs to cup her cheek while she feasts on me.