Thank goodness for vacation.
COME TO ME
Ily Goyanes
I wasn’t able to masturbate until I turned thirty. Well, I guess you can say I was able to masturbate, but not successfully. I couldn’t come. The first time I tried I was probably around fourteen years old, extremely horny, slightly slutty and harboring a secret fear that I might be a nymphomaniac. I didn’t know much about technique, but I touched my pussy and tried to achieve the mythical orgasm I had read so much about.
My girlfriends would ask me over the years, when they found out about my disability during sex-filled conversations conducted over liquid lunches, how could I not masturbate. When I told them that I couldn’t bring myself to orgasm, they gasped and laughed, completely incredulous because many of them could only orgasm when they were masturbating. I would smile, shrug and repeat my standard line, “I don’t know. I just can’t come knowing that it’s me.”
That was the problem, you see. The fact that I was the one touching myself, playing with my clit, fingering my wet cunt, just didn’t do it for me. It wasn’t a lover overcome with desire for me, it was me. And I guess I just didn’t desire myself at all.
As I trudged through my early adulthood and countless male lovers (I use the term “lovers” loosely; there was never any actual love involved), I gradually abandoned trying to make myself come. I mean, after all, I had only sought masturbatory relief on nights when I couldn’t sneak out and get some cock. What I didn’t realize until almost seventeen years later is that masturbation is not simply a replacement for sex. It is a form of sex in itself; sex with your self. And who should know you better than you? With whom else can you be so uninhibited and so free?
Sometimes I thought the problem was a faulty imagination. I should be able to imagine that someone else was touching me, right? But that wouldn’t work either, for the same reasons I could never meditate. I was too grounded, too in touch with my physical world to believe I was somewhere else or with someone else. But that wasn’t it either. I just didn’t want to have sex with myself.
Occasionally, I put on a good show. As I got older and started having sex with both men and women, I would perform the obligatory masturbation scene for them. Lesbian and bisexual women really love to watch another woman get herself off. Men also enjoy the show, but eventually want to become active participants, before you start to think that you might not need them anymore. It was always just a show, though; a precursor to what I really wanted: to get fucked good and hard and without mercy.
My friends, always a source of inspiration, would offer suggestions. “Have you tried using your showerhead?” Or my personal favorite, “Maybe you should try watching some porn first.” What they didn’t and couldn’t understand was that the problem lay not in the preparation, the utensil or a lack of fantasy—I just didn’t want to fuck myself. By my midtwenties, I had tried the folkloric showerhead, numerous dildos, vibrators, porn and all kinds of accessories. I had placed nipple clamps on my tits and fucked myself with an eight-inch vibrating dildo while watching porn, and still…nothing. “It’s not you,” I whispered to my unhappy cunt, “it’s me.”
When I turned thirty and had brought my barhopping to a slow crawl, I met Cody. I had never dated anyone like Cody before. Cody was neither male nor female in gender. Cody had a cunt, but that didn’t confine her to being a woman. Being “strictly dickly” most of my life, I have to say that my high level of inebriation had a lot to do with our first sexual encounter. And our second. But by then I was hooked. Cody would finger-fuck me in the bathroom of the bar, in the parking lot, and once up against the front door of the bar. She would fuck me hard, the way that I most enjoyed it, and make me come and come and come. She would keep fucking me as I came, telling me how dirty I was, what I slut I was to let her fuck me in public, the humiliating statements making me rupture in orgasm until I saw only white and stars and could hear nothing at all.
I told her I couldn’t be her girlfriend, that I wasn’t gay. Because really, I’m not. Fluid is a better word; insatiable an even better one. I just love sex; I can’t get enough of it. The fear I had harbored as a horny youth had, in fact, come true. I was a nymphomaniac. But what I was not was a lesbian. We could be fuckbuddies, I said. Nothing more. No matter how good you fuck me. No matter how many times you make me feel like I am weightless and deprived of all senses except for the one emanating from my clit.
We argued. We stopped talking for days at a time, three at the most. But we always returned to our sophisticated arrangement. The sex was too good not to. I introduced Cody to anal sex, which she had previously labeled as forbidden. I lubed her up and worked my fingers in one at a time, until she was moaning and grinding against my hand, her ass greedy for more. I eventually worked her up to where she could take her own strap-on, all nine glorious inches of it. She would bend over for me like a fag, and I would fuck her like one, pounding my femme cock into her ass until she couldn’t stand without support.
We would role-play, another of my favorite pastimes: The cheerleader and the jock. The hooker and her trick. The frat boy and the drunken freshman. Before you label my sex life as trite and cliché, let me continue. We also played circus acrobat and ringmaster. We had beautiful BDSM sessions, taking turns being on top. Leashes, collars, restraints, gags, blindfolds, razor blades, hot wax, cigarettes…anything and everything that we could get our hands on to cause each other pain was game.
One day we were limited to phone sex because I was on a business trip. It was the first time we couldn’t get our hands on each other after having daily sex for six months. When something becomes a habit, it is hard to break free. “Are you naked?” Cody asked. I made a joke and tried to change the subject. I didn’t feel up to performing and I didn’t want to have to act with her when what we had was so real. “What’s wrong, baby?” she asked. After revealing myself to her completely, it was hard to keep anything hidden. She picked up on my hesitation. “I just don’t do that,” I answered.
“What don’t you do?” I could hear Cody’s tone changing, from sexy to amused and curious. “I don’t…do phone sex.” I answered, hoping that would suffice. She was too smart for that. “Well, then, just fuck yourself and let me listen.” She knew she would get it out of me one way or another. “It’s not that,” I replied reluctantly. “I don’t masturbate.”
“Why not?” Cody asked. Finally, a response to that statement without recrimination or ridicule, a response lacking incredulity, seeking only the reason why. “I don’t know, baby…I never have. I can’t make myself come.”
“Hmmm…that has to be remedied. You’re really missing out. Even with all the sex we have, I still masturbate a few times a week.” I was surprised by this. Why would anyone want to masturbate when she was having life-altering sex on a daily basis? “Really?” I asked, not quite believing her. “Oh, yeah. For sure. You’ll see.” I highly doubt it, I thought, and then begged off the phone because I had an early meeting the next day and the sudden urge for a drink.
When I returned, Cody picked me up at the airport. We didn’t stop making out from the baggage claim to the parking garage. Once we got in the car Cody said, “I rented a room close by. I couldn’t wait until we got to your house.” I silently praised her foresightedness. The first thing I wanted after three days of mind-numbing meetings was to be completely filled by Cody—her hands, her cock, her mouth. I wanted to be completely consumed by her desire for me. If I thought it would have resulted in anything worthwhile, I would have been flicking my clit the entire flight back under the cheap blanket. “That’s great.” I said nonchalantly. If there is one thing I had learned from being a heterosexual woman, it’s to not show too much enthusiasm.
When we got to the hotel, we took a shower together. We loved taking showers together. It was like pervert playtime. Penetration is so easy when you’re soaking wet. And the feel of our warm wet skin sliding up and down each other’s body, well….
In the shower, she took me fro
m behind. My hands pressed against the back shower wall, slightly bent over, I relished the feeling of her pumping in and out of my tight ass. I loved getting fucked like this; when my ass got reamed I felt a pleasure almost unequaled by anything else.
After the shower we made our way to the king-size hotel bed. Cody had chosen well. Knowing how tactile I am, she had selected an upscale hotel with delicious sheets. For a few minutes I lay naked, clean and happy, enjoying that “just fucked” feeling. Cody lay next to me and began tracing the ample curves of my body lightly, with just the tips of her fingers. “Mmmm…” I purred. Cody spread my legs open and continued caressing me, trailing her hands across every part of my squeaky-clean exterior.
“Fuck me,” I said slowly, still lost in the delectable feeling of the sheets and the ass-fucking I had just received. Cody chuckled and asked me if I felt good. “Mmm-hmm. You know I do.”
“Do you know how much you turn me on?” Cody asked. “Of course, I do,” I answered slyly. Cody grabbed me by the face and forced me to look at her. “No. Do you really know?” she asked, an intensely serious look in her normally mischievous eyes. I squirmed a little in her grasp. Was this a new game we were playing? Who was who? What was the script?
She kissed me long and hard, rolling on top of me and thrusting her hard, muscular thigh between my legs and against my sex. This was more like it. “Fuck me,” I said again, more forcibly.
“No.” Cody rolled off me. She put her hand between my legs and started rubbing my clit in that incredible way she does. Almost immediately I was on the verge of coming. I never have problems coming with other people, in fact, I come quite well.
“Touch yourself.”
I cringed… No, really? Did I have to? I was so turned on, so ready for one of our usual sex marathons… Please, please, please don’t do this to me…
“Do it. It’s about time a big girl like you makes herself come.” Cody was being mean, and not in a good way. I wanted body worship; I wanted to see that sweet look in her eye when she stopped to watch her cock moving in and out of my cunt. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and turned my face toward her. “Come on. Show me. You are the most attractive and sexy woman I have ever met in my life. If you can’t make yourself come, I will lose faith in sex.”
Well, this wouldn’t do! I reluctantly started rubbing slow circles around my clit and sliding my fingers up and down my slick cunt. I was soaked. “Touch yourself the way I touch you,” she ordered me. I began to try and emulate the impassioned way that Cody played with my pussy. She played with my cunt as if it were the last cunt on earth and she would never get to play with it again. The more I thought about it, though, it wasn’t so much a feeling of desperation that Cody exhibited when she played with my pussy, but a sense of adoration. And the more I thought about how much she loved my pussy, the more wet I became.
“Yes, baby, that’s it. Make love to that sweet pussy,” Cody whispered next to me. I had almost, for a second, forgotten she was there. “You have the most precious cunt I have ever known,” she continued “and I have tasted, touched and fucked many cunts in my life.” I was getting more and more excited, my breathing becoming shallower, and I was actually enjoying my self!
“I wouldn’t trade your cunt for any other cunt in the universe,” Cody breathed directly into my ear. “Your cunt is the essence of magnificence, a work of art, a masterpiece.” I inserted two fingers into my pussy and began to fuck myself hard. “Yes, yes…” I didn’t know where the words were coming from or what I was saying yes to. At this moment I didn’t know anything at all. I was achieving the pinnacle of great sex—an utter and complete lack of thought.
“You know why I came on to you so hard that first night at the bar?” Cody continued her exquisite torture, whispering in my ear. “Because you were the strongest woman in the room. You moved like a lioness prowling the desert. I knew I had to go in for the kill.” With these last words of Cody’s, I spasmed, my breath caught in my throat, tears came to my eyes and I saw stars.
ON MY HONOR
D. L. King
It was the Girl Scout badge sash that did it, really. I mean, I was a Girl Scout, as a child, and had a badge sash; still do. It’s at the bottom of the drawer I keep my jeans in. I ran across it a few weeks ago. It’s tiny. I mean really tiny. There’s no way I could wear it now. But she was wearing hers. Here she was on uniform night in a Girl Scout badge sash, a pale green short-sleeved cotton shirt and a green pair of boy shorts.
“Are you a good little Girl Scout or a bad one?” I asked her.
She looked at me and smiled before looking down. “I try to be good, Ma’am.”
“Based on that smile, I’d say you probably fail a lot. In fact, I’d bet you’re a pretty bad little Girl Scout. Where’s your hat? You know you’re out of uniform without your hat?”
“I lost it. I lost it in the bushes.”
“What were you doing in the bushes?” I asked.
“Katie told me she wanted to show me something, but she didn’t show me anything, she just put her hand down my shorts. And then our troop leader called and my hat fell off. In the bushes.” She smiled and ground her toe into the floor, looking up to see if she was having the proper effect on me.
“Just as I thought, you are a bad little Girl Scout. Where did you get the badge sash?”
“It’s mine, Ma’am. I mean, it really is mine. I was a Girl Scout for years when I was a kid.”
“Well, girlie, you look just fine.”
I wasn’t really wearing a uniform. I was wearing my short-sleeved leather shirt, black jodhpurs and black riding boots. I suppose I sort of looked like a state trooper—in some alternate universe. The shirt is something I tend to wear occasionally, when I go out. Really, the whole outfit is a normal night at the bar, with the possible exception of the jodhpurs. Those I put on for uniform night. Hey, it worked. All the little girls knew I was one sexy-ass top, and that was all that mattered.
“Let me see that badge sash,” I said. “So these are really yours, huh? I had some of these. What’s this one?” I asked, pointing to one with a coffee cup on it.
Her attention was drawn to the place where my finger rested against her abdomen. “Oh, that’s Hospitality or Hospitality Services, I think. Something like that.”
“Yeah, I didn’t have that one. Guess I wasn’t into service, even then. Why don’t you go get me a drink and we can talk,” I handed her a twenty. “You can bring it right back here. We’ll see if your service skills are still up to par.” I saw a little shiver course through her. “Ketel One martini, three olives, up. What’s that you’re drinking?”
“Tom Collins, Ma’am.”
“Tom Collins? God, haven’t heard that one in a long time. A retro drink for a retro girl. Well, get yourself another one of those too. Show me what kind of hospitality slut, er, sub you are.”
She grinned, licked her lips and headed off toward the bar. Actually, she flounced off to the bar, giving her ass a little extra shake, just in case I was looking. And of course I was looking.
The bar was filled with cops, paramedics, doctors and even a few nurses but I was smitten by the little Girl Scout with the curly brown hair, sweet tits and curvy ass.
“Sorry, Ma’am, there was a crowd at the bar. I’ll try to do better next time.”
The bar looked to be about ten deep in women wanting drinks. “You seem to have deserved that badge in hospitality.” I was fascinated by her badge sash. She had a sewing badge and a cup with pens and brushes sticking out of it. I had that one; I seemed to remember it was called Dabbler or something like that, It was an art badge. She had a lifesaving badge and something that looked like helping hands.
“I guess you like to help people, huh? Saved any lives?”
“Nope. I got the badge and then, when I turned sixteen, I passed my Red Cross Junior and Senior Lifesaving tests but I never got a job as a lifeguard. I suppose I do like to help people. I’d like to help you.”
I looked at he
r. “Oh, yeah? What do you think I need help with?”
“Well, anything. I mean, you might need help with cleaning your house or cooking or,” she paused. “Or putting your clothes away, you know, like after you take them off. Or maybe I could just help you relax. I’m pretty good at massage—all kinds of massage and I’m pretty good at—providing a canvas for relieving your tensions, ya know?”
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