by Radclyffe
“I want dessert,” I tell her with a smile. I hold my hand out and beckon her over, pulling her into my embrace.
Sometimes I feel the need to be slow and gentle with her. I love her and want her to know the tenderness and respect I feel for her. Other times my need is raw and hot, and that’s how I feel tonight.
I’m wet and tingle around the pliant double dildo that stretches me on one end and lies warming against my belly on the other. It took some concentrated relaxation methods and a handful of lube to prepare myself this way. Its girth between my legs, bulging my jeans, adds to my swagger.
She smiles at the rap of a deep-voiced singer I’ve put on continuous replay. It’s the first song she played for me and she’d said, “It makes me think of you.”
I dance against her, turning and rubbing my back against her breasts, my ass against her crotch. She loves my narrow hips and muscled butt, and I take advantage of that whenever possible.
“Remember the night of our first date?” My voice is low and husky. “We were so hot for each other, I thought I would throw you down on the dance floor and have you right there.”
She plays along, dancing and smiling at my scene-setting.
“We could have gone into the restroom,” she offers, alluding to another time when we christened the bar where we met with our ardor.
I dance around her and this time gyrate against her back, rubbing the bulge in my jeans against her buttocks and my rock-hard nipples against her shoulders. I am so very hot for her.
Coming full circle, I take her hands in mine, urging her back until her hips are against the dining room table.
When I push her to a reclining position, she protests. “I’m too heavy.”
“No, you’re not. Lie back and slide to the end,” I command softly. I’ve always wanted to say that to a woman. Maybe one day I’ll fulfill that gynecologist fantasy I have.
But this comes close. She lifts her hips as I tug her pajama bottoms and panties off, exposing her as I stand between her legs and draw her closer. The rapper is chanting about going crazy with love, and sex that is better than drugs.
I lick my way down her soft, white thighs and my mouth waters as her musk reaches my nostrils. I spread her open to my eyes and my tongue. My own juices trickle around the thick dildo as I feast on her wetness.
The power I feel in taking what is mine—what she willingly gives me—is fueled by her moans. I suck hard at her clit and run my tongue along the outside of her opening. I feel her grow hot and hard, and her breath quickens.
No, not yet, my sweet.
I take her to the edge, back off, then feast again while never allowing her release. Not yet.
I pull another, smaller dildo I’d left on an adjacent chair and lubricate it while I continue to lick. I tease her opening with it, pushing in a little, then withdrawing. She opens to me as I slide it in and out, keeping the rhythm in time with my tongue and the rapper’s croon for his lady to “do what you do to me.”
I feel her tense. She’s too close.
Not yet, love. I’m only preparing her to be really filled.
I grab her hands and pull her to a sitting position. Smiling at the confusion I see in her eyes, I cover her mouth with my own before she can protest.
Our kiss deepens. She sucks my tongue and reaches for the zipper on my pants. She slips her hand inside, stopping for a moment when she feels my surprise. Her hand wraps around the cock and strokes so that it pushes deeper in me. I am swollen and hot where it rubs me.
“Turn around,” I tell her. It is more of a request than a command. She complies and bends over the table as the rapper instructs “feet to shoulders, you know how we do it.”
Her hips are soft in the candlelight. I love her ass. I kiss her smooth skin while spreading generous amounts of lube on the phallus that will connect my desire to hers.
I press in slowly, pulling out and pushing a little farther to allow her time to receive what I have to give. She grunts as I push in deeper and wait for her to adjust to its thickness.
I use my feet to push hers farther apart so I can lean over her back, brushing my nipples against her skin. Reaching around to tease her clit, I begin a slow thrust of my hips. I close my eyes and tremble against the urge to rush. Each stroke fills me as it fills her.
“Oh, baby,” she moans.
I’m sliding in and out smoothly now, so I pick up my speed. She begins to whimper, and I signal my own impending orgasm with urgent grunts I know she will recognize. I shift for better position and thrust hard in a fast slap, slap, slap of my hips against her buttocks.
I can’t hold out as a climax swarms up from my clit and explodes in my belly, but I keep pumping and stroking her clit until she screams so loud that I wonder if the neighbors are dialing 911.
She finally reaches behind to still my motion and I lie heavily on her to catch my breath, to slow my pounding heart.
“I love you,” I whisper.
The ringing of my cell phone jerks me back to the present and I press my hand against the throbbing in my crotch as I answer.
“Where are you?” she asks. “I thought you’d be here thirty minutes ago.”
“Is the cable guy there?”
“Here and gone. You won’t miss a minute of the big game tonight.”
“Do me a favor and set the DVR to record it. I’ll be there in a bit. I’m going to stop by the grocery,” I say thinking of the plump, ripe strawberries I saw there the day before. I hurry out the back door. “I’ve got other plans for us tonight.”
I end the call and pull the door shut, realizing the memories are not in her house, but in my heart. Tonight, in our house, we will add to them.
A LOVE STORY
Evan Mora
Tell me a story.”
A story, she says. “About what?”
“About us.”
Of course. It’s all a story, isn’t it? All these hours and days, the big and the small, the changing of seasons. All these months, all these years. Her head on my lap, our fingers entwined, dappled sunlight filtering down through the canopy we’re under, a solid trunk older than us all at my back.
“I once met this girl…” That’s how it begins.
“Where?”
“In a town by the sea.”
That’s not where we met, but it doesn’t matter to Kate. This story’s about love, not history.
“Was it summer or winter?”
“Fall, I think; a gray, foggy day, on the beach. I was walking along—”
“Were you barefoot?”
“Of course. I was carrying my shoes in my hand. I’d been walking for miles, hadn’t seen a soul, and then she was there, just ahead. She was throwing rocks out into the surf, and she was alone, like me.”
It was winter, really, when Kate and I met, at the greengrocer, down in the village. She’d toppled a pile of grapefruit because, she’d later confess, she’d been looking at me. She’s a bit clumsy, in an endearing kind of way, though it offends her butch sensibilities if I mention it.
“Did you speak to her?”
“I did.”
“That was bold.”
“I suppose. I told her she had a good arm. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I play shortstop for the Tigers, one of the summer league teams here in town.’ I confessed I’d only arrived the day before. ‘Here for Women’s Week?’ she asked. I said yes. ‘That’s too bad,’ she continued.”
“Why too bad?” Kate asks.
“I asked her the very same thing. ‘It’s not every day a pretty stranger happens by. How will I ever get to know you in a week?’ she said.”
“She was smooth.”
“Very smooth,” I agree with a smile, and I see Kate’s chest swell just a little. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about her, the charisma that she’s got in spades.
“Did she ask you out?”
“Not exactly. We just sort of wound up walking along the beach together. Walking and talking—and her voice—let me tell
you, I could have listened to her voice forever.”
There’s no fiction in that, though Kate doesn’t believe me. She always scoffs when I compliment her voice. Nothing special, she says. But she’s wrong about that. Her voice is melodious and deep. It can soothe or excite, it’s cultured and smooth, it can be fierce or tender by turn.
“What did you talk about?”
“I really don’t know…trivial things, I suppose. It wasn’t so much the things that were said, but the way that I felt that I remember.”
“And how did you feel?”
“At ease, content. Talking with her seemed so natural. We were strangers, I know, but it didn’t feel like we were. It felt like we were connected.”
I tighten my grip on Kate’s hand for emphasis, and she draws our laced fingers to her lips. She kisses my knuckles, soft lips, warm breath, and she nods that she understands. I brush a stray lock from her forehead and smile. My Kate, my hopeless romantic.
“I felt wistful too.” I continue our story. “I felt such a pull to this woman, but my life was a thousand miles away, and hers was in that seaside town. When she asked me to dinner, I was ready to decline—”
“But why?” Kate interjects.
“Because I wasn’t looking for a vacation romance, and I had a feeling she’d be easy to love…”
“So what happened?”
“She kissed me. Before I said no. Before I said anything at all. She kissed me, and I knew that wherever this path led, I’d follow it until the end.”
It sounds crazy, I know, to say it like that, like it’s the big kiss in some Hollywood romance. But while there might not have been any fireworks in the background, I remember the first time Kate kissed me just as vividly. The sweep of her tongue between my parted lips, the solid strength of her body pressed against me; the taste of her, like rich coffee and dark chocolate, and something altogether more life-sustaining.
“Some kiss.” Kate smirks.
“Oh, indeed.” I smile down into her eyes. “I’ll have you know I’m a bit of a kiss connoisseur, and I’m not sure there’s ever been another quite like it.”
“Is that so?” She’s fishing for compliments now, and I tweak her on the nose.
“The story?” I remind her.
“Oh right,” she says. “She kissed you. So what happened then?”
“I accepted her invitation to dinner, of course.”
“Of course. So where did she take you?”
“Her place.”
“What?” Kate’s indignant now. I’ve upset her sense of propriety. I can’t help but tease her sometimes, she’s so cute when she’s all butch and irate. “She didn’t even take you on a proper date? I don’t care how well she kisses—”
“She was a chef, silly.” I interrupt her mid-sentence. “She took me to her restaurant.”
“Ohh…” Kate relaxes back into my lap, content to let me continue. “I always wanted to be a chef.”
In truth, she’s a corporate accountant. Boardrooms and bottom lines dominate her days, but she always dreams of something more exciting.
“It was Monday,” I continue, “so the restaurant was closed. We had the place all to ourselves.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“It was—soft lighting, slow jazz, and a fantastic cabernet. I loved watching her work, she was so fluid and at ease, and let me tell you, the woman could cook. We ate and we talked, finished off the wine, and the hours passed by far too fast. ‘I should go…’ I sighed. ‘But you can’t,’ she said. ‘Can’t you hear it? They’re playing our song.’”
“What was it?” Kate asks, but she already knows, because this part? It’s always the same.
“Louis Armstrong,” I say and Kate smiles like she does. This is always her favorite part. I trace the lines around her eyes and the grooves at her mouth, evidence of the happiness we’ve shared.
“‘A Kiss to Build a Dream On,’” I say, and Kate captures my hand, kissing the pads of my fingers.
“Tell me more.” She’s still holding my hand, and I pick up where the story left off.
“We danced, right there, in the middle of the restaurant, and it was like everything—”
“Just disappeared.”
I sigh, just a little, remembering our date—the first time Kate and I had gone to dinner. A sleepy little French place in the East End. We’d talked until there was no one there but us. As the waiters swept up and set the tables for the morning brunch, Louis was singing in the background.
Dance with me? Kate had said with a smile. How could I resist? She’d kissed me, somewhere in the middle of that dance, and the world had just faded away. We’d kissed until the maitre d’ had cleared his throat, politely telling us the restaurant had closed.
“So we danced,” I say, getting back to my tale, “or we swayed, at least, to the music. And as clichéd as it sounds, she felt so right. It was like her arms were made to hold me.”
“And did you kiss?” Kate asks.
“Oh yes, we kissed. But that was as far as it went.”
“But you saw her again?”
“The very next day…and the next, and the one after that. We spent every moment that we could together, when she wasn’t busy with things at the restaurant. She showed me her world and the things that she loved, and somehow she slipped into my heart.”
That’s the way it had been with Kate. We’d both fallen fast and hard. Kate had called me the morning after our date and asked me to dinner that same night. She’d said she didn’t believe in playing any kind of games. Neither do I, I’d said. We’d been virtually inseparable from that day forward. We were married a year later, to the day.
“Before I knew it,” I continue, “the week had passed, and there was only one night that remained. She asked if she could make me dinner again, but this time, in her home.”
I pause to see if Kate will react, but she’s quiet, so I go on.
“The meal was fantastic, if a little subdued. I think we were both all too aware this was the end. ‘Should I put on a fire?’ she asked when the meal was done, but I was restless, so I shook my head.
“‘Can we see the ocean from here?’ I knew it was close. We’d only walked a couple of blocks from the shore. ‘Come on,’ she said, grabbing wine and a blanket, and leading me up two flights of stairs. She turned in to a room that was clearly her bedroom, and I paused in the open doorway. ‘Trust me.’ She smiled, crossing to the other side and pulling open her balcony doors.
“It was beautiful, Kate, with the moonlight spilling in, and she beckoned for me to come outside. We sat side by side, wrapped up in her blanket, looking out at the reflection of the moon.”
“I’ve always loved the ocean…” Kate sighs and I smile, thinking that in some other life she must have been a pirate, or a sailor maybe; she has such an affinity for the sea.
“We sat there,” I say, “for what seemed like forever, listening to the sounds of the night, and somewhere in the middle of that, she whispered to me that she loved me.”
“What did you say?” Kate asks quietly.
“Nothing. I started to cry. ‘Hey now,’ she said softly, cupping my face in her hands, ‘that’s not exactly the response I was hoping for.’ ‘I know,’ I sniffed, ‘I just can’t believe I’ve got to go home in the morning.’ It seemed too cruel a thing, to finally find love, and then to lose it before it had been realized. ‘Do you love me?’ she asked. ‘What difference does it make?’ ‘All the difference in the world,’ she said. I nodded. ‘Yes, I love you,’ and she kissed me before I could say more. We stayed like that, wrapped up in our blanket on her balcony by the light of the moon, kissing and touching, trying on this word ‘love,’ tasting it on each other’s tongues.”
“This story had better have a happy ending,” Kate says, and her voice is a little gruff. It never fails to amaze me what a softie she is, despite her sometimes tough exterior.
“Are you going to let me finish telling it?” I tease, flashing her a little smile
.
“Well, I’m just concerned—”
“You’re concerned?”
“Well, yes. So you were in love, but didn’t you still have to leave in the morning?”
“If you’d stop interrupting, I’d get to that part.”
Kate harrumphs, but is quiet once more, so I pick up where the story left off.
“‘I wish I could stay,’ I whispered. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘Chicago’s a big city. I hear they always need more good restaurants.’ I sat back, disbelieving—she couldn’t be serious, and yet there was no laughter in her eyes. ‘You couldn’t—’ ‘Couldn’t I?’ she challenged. ‘I’ve been restless here for a while. I’ve got a good manager; he can handle the place. Maybe now’s the perfect time to expand. A little East Coast cooking in the Windy City…that is, if you wouldn’t mind the company?’ I started crying all over again and threw my arms around her neck. ‘Yes!’ I said, kissing her cheek, her lips, anywhere I could reach. She caught my lips for a deeper kiss, one that left both of us breathless.
“‘Stay with me?’ she whispered against my lips, and I nodded my assent. We went back inside, closed the balcony doors, and loved each other until morning.”
“Happily ever after?” Kate says.
“Yeah.” I smile. “Something like that. Being with her, it was everything. It felt like there had never been a time without her, and that everything we would ever do in our infinite future together was happening at that moment as well.”
“That’s how you felt about her?”
“No,” I say. “That’s how I feel about you.” Kate kisses me then, the best feeling in the world, and one that no story can describe.
The sun’s riding low in the summer sky, and that’s always our cue to end. We pack up our blanket and head indoors. We’ll make dinner, maybe watch some TV. And tomorrow or the next day, we’ll do it all again, under the big beautiful tree in our yard.
“Next time,” Kate says, “I want to be a pilot…”
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
CHEYENNE BLUE’s (www.cheyenneblue.com) erotica has appeared in over sixty anthologies including Best Women’s Erotica, Mammoth Best New Erotica, Best Lesbian Erotica, Best Lesbian Romance, Girl Crazy, Girl Crush, and Lesbian Lust. She thinks rules are made to be broken.
