I placed my hands on Nicole’s forearms and felt the coiled tension there. I pulled her closer, just like that, and kissed her, tasting the tang of metallic as the silver ring slid against my tongue.
No matter how tough and rugged she might have looked, Nicole kissed like a woman. Don’t get me wrong; she was as hungry as I was. Her tongue stroked mine slowly, probing keenly in a most exquisite way. The air in her mouth was hot. I felt her fingers waver near the waist of my black pants.
She pulled back, both of us breathing hard. All in all, the kiss had been a little demanding, but nothing too violent. As I looked into Nicole’s gray-blue eyes I knew that it wouldn’t be the two of us ending up in bed together. That wasn’t the plan.
She stepped back from me then. We both looked at Jamie, who was lying on the bed, naked, looking back at us. No one said a word. I was ready to fuck her if they asked me.
Nicole tapped a cigarette from an open box on the table and lit it. She drew in deep and expelled a column of smoke. “Don’t get undressed,” she said to me and pointed at a chair next to the side of the bed. “That’s your place. Don’t forget it.” She winked at me. Some sublime form of butch code passed between us.
As I sat down, one leg resting in a T across my knee, Nicole pulled her vest off and tossed it into a corner. Both Jamie and I watched as she unbuttoned the heavy buttons on her black cargos, the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. The sound of the metallic buttons popping was followed by someone exhaling loudly—me, I realized. For an instant I felt as if it was me standing there. I realized my hands were grasping the chair. It took everything I had not to stand up and walk over to the bed.
Nicole stepped closer and held her half-smoked cigarette out to me. I took it, grateful for something to put in my mouth, and watched her strut over to the bed. I glimpsed a broad, black studded belt above the waistline of her pants. That’s a good-looking piece of leather. Her crotch bulged fetchingly as she climbed onto the bed and crawled over Jamie like a snake. The bed creaked prettily.
Nicole and Jamie kissed, hard, and when I saw Nicole’s tongue—which had moments before been in my own mouth—slip past her lover’s lips a small sound of satisfaction escaped from Jamie’s throat.
My senses began their slow but certain dip into overload. My groin was on fire. I heard the smooth shhhk as one of Jamie’s legs moved against Nicole’s clothed thigh and her heel hooked around the inside of Nicole’s knee.
They were making the stimulated sounds of lovers flushed with arousal, and there I was, not four feet away, watching them. Nicole moved her mouth down. When her tongue flicked lewdly before taking Jamie’s erect nipple into her mouth, I heard a moan. Involuntarily, I followed with one of my own, short and tight.
Nicole’s hand moved down between her legs, and disappeared inside her cargos. When she brought it back out she held at least eight inches of dyke cock in her hand. I grunted at the sight of it; not because I wanted it in me, but because I wished I was Nicole.
Nicole turned her head and looked at me, smiling as Jamie reached down to take the cock in her hand. I was having a hard time taking my eyes off Jamie’s hips as they rose eagerly from the mattress. Nicole put one of her big, decorated hands on Jamie’s hip and held her down, making the muscles beneath the skin of her taut belly move.
“Fuck her,” I snarled, quite unrepentantly, only then realizing how my jaw muscles were clenching. Nicole leaned forward and in one admirably executed move thrust herself into Jamie with a harsh grunt.
I sat and watched, rapt.
At first Nicole was nice and easy. She allowed Jamie to move up to meet her as she kept a fixed tempo. Every so often Jamie would make encouraging sounds, or those of pleasure when Nicole’s cock hit the right spot. I watched the tattoos on the butch girl’s back as they moved and undulated to the syncopated rhythm of that one weak spot in the mattress. At one point they both looked over to where I was sitting, their movements never faltering, their attention fixed on me. I felt my hand move down to my crotch.
Nicole began to fuck Jamie harder then, no doubt partly due to the fact that I seemed to have found my tongue and was egging her on. She was strong and held Jamie down, fucking her into the mattress while I implored her with rude remarks; ones I realized I’d wanted to say ever since Jamie had the balls to call me “lassie.” I wanted to screw Jamie myself…but I knew the magic would end, the spell would be broken if I dared move from that chair an inch. All I could do was grind my teeth and cross my legs while watching the two of them on the bed.
When they were done, Jamie and Nicole fell against one another, kissing like longtime lovers. I wondered at that. Nicole couldn’t have been older than myself. Maybe even younger. The idea that they had been in a relationship for some time was perversely thrilling.
I got up weakly to leave when Nicole went into the bathroom. The sound of a tap being opened brought reality back in full swing. Jamie, naked, stopped me when I was halfway to the door. “Thanks for coming,” she said and laughed, realizing her pun. She patted and squeezed my ass before disappearing inside the bathroom just as Nicole came out. She walked me to the door.
I reached out to turn the knob but Nicole stopped me. Grabbing my wrist, she shoved my hand inside her cargos. Her clit was hard. I knew what she wanted.
I stroked her, stiff and rough. It was strange but thrilling to hear the low obscenities of another butch in my ear. My coccyx tingled with newfound lust.
It didn’t take long for her to come. I didn’t know whether Jamie was aware of what we were doing. Nicole pushed me against the door, grinding her hips against mine, and came with a cry of release still stuck inside her throat. I fumbled for the doorknob and fell out into the hallway. The door banged shut loudly behind me. For a moment I just stood there, flushed and getting my bearings back. When I checked my watch I saw that it was almost two in the morning. Too late to catch the Tube. Too late for a bus. Dammit. I should have asked for cab money.
BRIGHT ANGEL
Sacchi Green
Maura lounged against the railing, gazing out over the vast, bright gulf of stone dropping away at her feet. Dark sunglasses masked her green eyes, and those famous waves of long chestnut hair were tied down by an Hermès scarf rippling in the breeze.
“Are you trying to tell me all this was carved by that little trickle of a river?” In spite of her studied nonchalance, I could tell she was as awestruck as any other tourist.
“The Colorado’s wider than it looks from this distance. And it was carrying billions of grains of rasping sand over millions of years.” I didn’t look toward the river at all, gazing only at Maura’s slim, vivid form. The view of the Grand Canyon from Mather Point had gripped me often enough over the years, and I had photographed it for many a magazine and guidebook, but long ago I’d come to terms with the inability of the human mind to fully comprehend its grandeur.
Comprehending Maura, however, might still be within my grasp. A year ago I had discovered how to penetrate her dark and bright complexities, to push her mind and body to the edges where she needed so desperately to balance. A year ago—and then came her first starring movie role, with filming on location in various exotic areas around the world. We’d only been able to meet sporadically, except when she’d insisted they hire me to do the still photos for publicity.
Did I even know who she was anymore? When I’d picked her up at the Flagstaff airport she’d greeted me with a Hollywood air kiss, nothing to raise eyebrows even when directed by a drop-dead gorgeous twentysomething toward an aging, crop-haired butch like me. Then she’d dozed for most of the three-hour drive across the high desert. But at least she was here, as promised, keeping the date we’d made all those months ago.
I moved up close behind her at the railing, not quite touching. The April wind tugged several strands of hair free from her scarf and lashed them across my face and chest, rousing a tingle in my nipples just as though they were naked to those flailing whips of silk.
“Hey Roby,” Maura said, without turning her head. “Too bad you don’t have the balls to fuck me right here.”
Oh yeah. I still knew exactly who she was. “If you’d had the foresight to wear a skirt,” I told her, “you’d be bent over that railing right now praying you could hold on long enough to ride my fist to glory.” I pressed closer and reached around to unzip the fly of her elegantly cut jeans. “You could still drop your trousers and make all these amateur photographers rich on sales to the tabloids. Or you can let it simmer awhile, and I’ll fuck you somewhere even better.”
I could see out of the corner of my eye that we’d begun to distract a few tourists, most, of course, armed with cameras. Maura, even in scarf and sunglasses and denim, has the charisma of someone whose face could stare out at you with seductive arrogance from the pages of a fashion magazine. Whose face has, in fact, done exactly that, usually with the divinely sensuous participation of her body. More often than not the eye behind the camera had been mine, back before she moved on from the pinnacle of the modeling scene to her virgin attempt at acting.
“Don’t they say that no publicity is bad publicity?” Maura turned toward me. I reached out to untie her scarf and remove her sunglasses, tucking them away in the pocket of my leather jacket. The old challenge was in her eyes. Push me, it said. Force me to the edge. Make me feel.
“So you don’t think your acting can stand on its own,” I asked, wrapping strands of her windblown hair tightly around my fingers, “without the scandal of getting thrown out of a national park before the movie even opens?”
She caught at my hands. I released her hair. “Maybe I’ll give you a chance to show me somewhere you think is even better,” she said, and headed back toward the car. I waited just long enough to appreciate the elegant undulation of her hips in tight jeans before I caught up.
Maura wasn’t primarily an exhibitionist, in spite of her place in the public eye. Or possibly because of it. Her craving for danger was more complex than that. There had been times, once I had come to understand what my weathered skin and scarred body said to her, when she had begged me to mark the face the world saw so that it would become her own again. What she thought she wanted from me had nothing to do with tenderness. Still, whether she was aware of it or not, she needed something else from me, as well. Push me right up to the edge, her fierce eyes demanded, while a tiny tremor at the corner of her soft lips added, but don’t let me fall.
While I checked in at Bright Angel Lodge, Maura watched the tourists signing up to ride down the nearby Bright Angel Trail the next morning. Even in April, well before the high season, there was heavy traffic along the route. This late in the afternoon we wouldn’t have had long to wait to see the mule train returning from the river at the bottom of the canyon, four-fifths of a mile straight down and eight miles of switch-backing trail below, but I had no intention of waiting.
Our cabin out behind the lodge perched close to the edge, with just room for a narrow path and a wind-gnarled pinyon pine between its wall and the canyon’s rim. Even a year ahead of time it had taken luck and the pulling of a few strings to get the reservation.
While I brought in the luggage, two-thirds of it hers, Maura stood looking outward, one hand tightly gripping a pinyon branch. The drop here was really not that abrupt at first. One could conceivably survive a slide down over a series of shallow shelves to Bright Angel Trail below.
“Are we going down there?” she asked.
“Not on that trail,” I told her, “and definitely not on mules. Not all the way to the river, either.”
“Oh, right, I’d forgotten about your poor knees.” Her subtly mocking tone was just another variation on the game of challenge we played. I knew my old climbing injuries held a certain fascination for her, and she knew that my body still had more strength and stamina than hers would ever achieve from gyms and personal trainers.
“You’ll get all you can handle,” I told her. “Trust me.”
“I’m more worried about how much you can still handle.” Maura sauntered back to the cabin and stepped inside. I followed her eloquent butt, then stood in the doorway for a moment to watch her explore the interior.
The furnishings were of comfortably updated 1930s craft design, highlighting natural wood tones and artistically simple lines. The stone fireplace incorporated specimens of all the different rock strata revealed by the river’s carving of the canyon, from Precambrian black Vishnu Schist to the Kaibab Limestone of recent millennia.
The platform bed was modern, wide, and inviting. Maura prodded the mattress with a manicured finger, sat on the edge, then lay back. She eyed me speculatively, but without enough challenge to make it worthwhile.
“You must need to rest awhile after your trip,” I said with exaggerated solicitude. “Go ahead, take it easy. I understand.” I began to unpack, hanging things in the closet, watching for her next move. She got up and started to unbutton her shirt. Not a bad idea. The day was getting hot. So was I, but I wasn’t ready to take her deceptive bait. Maura is never that easy.
My own bait was more subtle. I moved into the living room, pulled open the curtains of the window beside the fireplace, and crossed to the far side to set my cameras and equipment out on a table. Maura followed.
I didn’t let her catch me watching, but she knew I could see her in the mirror as she shed her jacket and peeled off a tank top damp with sweat. She hadn’t bothered with a bra. Then, to enhance the temptation, she turned around to present a rear view while wriggling out of her jeans. Her lovely asscheeks paused in mid-wriggle as she saw the view presented by the wide window.
The vista, tinted gold and copper by the late afternoon sun, was breathtaking. Maura gripped her loosened jeans tightly and edged past chairs and coffee table to gaze out, spellbound. It was the same scene she had surveyed from the rim outside, but somehow intensified; made more personal, more deceptively comprehensible, by the framing effect of the window. From inside it looked as though the cabin extended right out over the shining void.
I waited five seconds for the mesmerizing effect of space and light and color to take hold, and then I was on her, pushing her hard against the log wall and windowsill. I had her own silk scarf tight across her mouth and her pants and foolish thong undies down around her ankles before she could do more than gasp.
She could easily have escaped, even hobbled like that, although she despised looking ridiculous. While my weight kept her pressed into the wall, her hands were free, gripping the wooden windowsill. Now and then people strolled by just outside on the pathway; if she rapped on the window, they’d turn to look. She knew how to make me let her go. But gagging was a special treat she wouldn’t risk losing, a promise that she was going to be driven to extremities, permission to let it all out without reserve. I wouldn’t always humor her that far. More than once she had cursed at me and demanded a gag. More often than not I had refused.
I gathered her thick chestnut hair in my fist and yanked her head back. “Surprise, my knees aren’t all that decrepit yet,” I hissed into her ear, and brought my right one hard up against her ass. She jerked, but spread her legs to let me thrust between her thighs and nudge into her crotch.
“You wonder how the river carves a canyon through rock?” I asked. “You think you’re stone? Haven’t I cut my petroglyphs into you?” My other hand worked its way around to her belly and slid down to her shaved pubic mound. The scars I’d given her, where even bikini photo spreads wouldn’t reveal them, were too shallow for my fingertips to find like this, but I knew they were there; four tiny, curving lines forming a delicate circle like a secret mandala, cut by the business end of an ice-climbing screw.
“I suppose you think the water always flows gently, smoothly, taking forever to wear away resistance.” My fingers moved lower, stroking gently, too gently, over her clit and lush outer lips. “Working down through layer after layer,” I went on, going deeper, sliding back and forth in her growing slickness, keeping it up slowly, slowly, as her acc
elerating whimpers of demand were muffled by the silk gag. She arched into my touch, desperate for more, harder, faster. I drew my fingers away and approached from the other side, starting with long strokes down between her buttocks and into the tender strata of her soaking crotch.
“But sometimes storms batter at the rocks, and spring floods from mountain snowmelt surge through the ravines.” I was really getting into it now. “The water pounds, thrashes, filled with sharp silt and uprooted trees.” I raised my hand suddenly to the nape of her neck, still holding her hair roughly back. The scent of her juices on my fingers roused my own. With my fingernails, short but strong, I scraped a line down the valley of her spine to its base. A shiver passed over her skin. Then I veered first to one side and then the other, tracing the delectable swell of her ass, leaving curving pink grooves just shallow enough to fall short of drawing blood. Her gluteal muscles flexed, and her muted voice rose in pitch.
A pair of college-boy jocks passed by outside; even through the gag she could have made enough noise to attract their attention. I felt a shudder wrack her body. She wanted so intensely for them to see…but would I pull back, drop her, rather than risk a scandal that might, at the least, distort her career?
I don’t know, myself, what I would have done, but they moved on past. My teeth fastened on to Maura’s right shoulder, and her taste filled my mouth. I had no more words. Moans and incoherent curses vibrated from her body through mine as she writhed toward my touch. I spread my fingers then and slapped hard, again and again, overlaying the scrapes on her buttocks with red handprints like the marks on the walls of ancient Anasazi cliff dwellings far below in the canyon.
Suddenly Maura lurched backward, pushing off from the windowsill, nearly toppling me. I lifted her just enough to swing her around and then dropped her hard onto the Navajo rug in front of the fireplace. In the seconds it took for me to get a latex glove from my pocket onto my hand she had torn off her gag and kicked her pants free of her ankles, and now she crouched, long hair falling forward to veil her face, her butt lifted toward me and her swollen labia exposed.
Best Lesbian Erotica 2007 Page 5
