Radical Encounters

by Radclyffe

  She is anyhow, I thought.

  You looked at me, and I rested my fingers on your arm. I knew what you wanted; I always do when it comes to this. “Go for it. If you don’t like it, we’ll take it out.”

  “Okay,” you said to Venus. “Let’s go the whole way.”

  “I’ll put in a fourteen-gauge to start. If you want bigger later, we can change it.” She met my gaze. “I have to be sure not to hit the shaft where the nerves run. I need her to be erect so I can tell what’s what—it’s safer that way. I can do it, or one of you can.”

  “I’ll do it.” I didn’t even raise my voice this time. I wasn’t going to let her or anybody else work you up. Besides, I wanted to be a part of it. I was dying to touch you. “Okay, baby?”

  “Yes,” you said, your voice husky and low.

  Venus turned away and did something in the background with things that clattered quietly. I leaned over, looked into your eyes, and slipped two fingers on either side of your clit. It was instantly hard. I watched your pupils flicker and dance as I carefully rolled the firm core of you between my fingers, pulling slightly at the end of each stroke. I got wet when I felt your warm come glaze my fingertips.

  “Don’t make me come,” you whispered breathlessly.

  “I won’t,” I murmured, but I wanted you just as stiff and swollen as I could get you. I wanted Venus to feel exactly where your clit was.

  “I’m getting close.” There was a note of desperation in your voice and perversely, I wanted to push you closer. You were mine, after all, and in a second I was going to have to hand you over to a strange woman. Your hips lifted and I felt your clit pulse, then go rigid.

  “That’s it,” I said hoarsely, looking up to see Venus across from me. There was a small tray beside her with things on it. I didn’t look too closely.

  “Good.” She smiled at you, then me. “Some people orgasm while I’m doing this. It’s from the stimulation of the nerves. Don’t be embarrassed or anything, okay?”

  As she talked, she swabbed something on your thighs, then reached down with one hand. She grasped your clit, then squeezed at the base. The head popped out, and you made a small choked sound.

  “You’ll probably feel like you need to come as soon as I pierce you. It actually helps ease the discomfort if the clitoris can decompress, so don’t fight it.”

  She reached for something else on the tray, and I looked into your face. A second later, your eyes got wide and you muttered, “Oh, fuck, baby. Oh, I think—Oh!”

  You pressed your face to my side. Venus took my hand and placed it gently on your clit.

  “Touch her right there. Easy.”

  I stroked you the way I always did when you were just about to come and you did, sweetly, in slow steady waves, crying out softly with each pulsation. I watched your clit coming. God, it was beautiful. I was always ready to stroke you off, but now...how was I going to keep my hands off you?

  When you got your breath back, you pushed up on your elbows and checked yourself out. Grinning, you looked at me. “What do you think?”

  “You’ve got a great clit, baby.” I stroked your leg but stayed clear of your piercing. “I don’t know how I’m going to stand not being able to play with it for a while, though.”

  You eyed my crotch. “Good thing we’ve got a spare.”

  Snow Dancing

  As I stood in the middle of my driveway and slowly turned three hundred and sixty degrees, I understood what inspired the title: Pure as the Driven Snow.

  There was no question that everywhere I looked the view was painfully beautiful and hauntingly chaste. A pristine, sparkling blanket covered everything: overhead, tree branches bowed beneath the feathery weight; the road narrowed to nothing more than a path between encroaching drifts; and all around me, swirling white nymphs floated on the air. Not a single footprint or errant noise suggested that I was anyone other than the last survivor in a world where sound and fury had succumbed to the inexorable march of millions, trillions of falling flakes.

  I have always loved to shovel snow. It’s always so very quiet, and the steady scrape of metal on stone is like another heartbeat keeping me company as I work. I’m an orderly shoveler. I outline boxes, starting first along the edges of the drive and then connecting the trenches at intervals with perfectly perpendicular ones, exactly the width of my shovel. Once the area is mapped, I clear the box closest to the house, then make another and move forward. If I’m feeling particularly adventurous, I might on occasion make a diagonal through the box. I’m careful about how I pile the snow, being certain to leave enough room on the top for later accumulations. Bend, extend, lift, and throw. A rhythmic cadence, an endpoint in sight, a job accomplished. When I reach the end of the driveway and look behind me, noting the perfectly squared edges and the even mounds of snow lining both sides, I have a sense of satisfaction and even pride. My secret pleasure.

  Unfortunately, today promised to be an instance of delayed gratification. There were fourteen inches of powdery white stuff covering my eighty-foot driveway. There was going to be a lot of bending, extending, lifting, and throwing going on before I reached the street. To make the situation even more interesting, it was still snowing. Steadily. I could barely see to the end of the driveway. With one last reverent glance and a whispered apology, I broke the surface of tranquility with my shovel.

  Time to begin my assault on nature.

  Thirty minutes later, it was clear to me that nature was winning. I wasn’t even a third of the way done, and when I looked behind me, the area that I’d already shoveled was blanketed again in a substantial coat of snow. I was reminded of the story I’d heard: that it takes so long to paint the Golden Gate Bridge, that once the crew reaches the end of the bridge, it’s time to go back to the opposite end and start over.

  Bend, extend, lift, and…

  “Need some help?”

  I could just barely see the figure at the end of my driveway, looking pretty much the way I did, I figured. That is to say, shapeless. Large, snow-covered, and shapeless.

  “That’s okay. Thanks. I’ve got it.”

  The form trundled forward through the mists of snow, slowly emerging as a recognizable human figure ten feet away. Blue woolen watch cap pulled low over straight dark brows, a few strands of dark hair escaping from the back and curling on the jacket collar, slightly above average height, blue nylon jacket, blue jeans, blue gloves. A study in blue with eyes I was willing to bet were the same color, but I couldn’t tell through the curtain of falling flakes.

  “My driveway is about a third the length of yours. I’m done with it, and I don’t mind lending a hand.”

  Lovely voice, melodious and deep. Second alto or countertenor, depending on the gender. Which for the life of me, I could not discern.

  I lifted a hand to shield my eyes, blinking as the crystals caked on my lashes. We were standing in the middle of a blizzard. “Yes. Thank you.”

  With a brisk nod, my new accomplice in this losing battle strode purposefully back to the opposite end of the driveway. As I watched, he—or she—made a neat square ten by ten feet wide and began to shovel it clear. Oddly comforted, I rededicated myself to the task. When I reached the midpoint of the driveway, I finally looked up again in time to see her toss her parka onto the top of a towering snow bank. And there was no question about the her part—the swell of breasts beneath the tight blue, silk thermal top put all doubt to rest.

  “You’ll freeze,” I called.

  “No,” her voice carried back to me. “I’m naturally hot-blooded. This feels great.”

  From where I was standing, it certainly looked great. Her jeans molded to her firm ass and solid thighs as if the material had grown there. She moved—bend, extend, lift, and throw—with an economy of motion and a precise rhythm that was mesmerizing. I was slowly becoming a snow statue as I stood unmoving, watching her work. I could almost imagine the muscles in her strong shoulders bunching as she thrust the blade into the snow, could almost feel
her powerful thighs flexing, then lifting, as she threw the load clear. Oddly, I wasn’t cold. If anything, I was pleasantly warm, and the heat escalated the longer I watched. Taking care to follow a path already shoveled so as not to pack down the snow beneath my boots, making it more difficult to remove later, I made my way to her.

  “We’ve been out here quite a while. Can I offer you something hot? Coffee, cocoa, soup?”

  She leaned on her shovel, her arm bent at the elbow and her legs casually crossed. She did have blue eyes. Blue blue, sky blue eyes. And they were appraising me in a way I hadn’t seen for quite some time, but still recognized. I met her gaze so that she would know that I knew she was looking, and she smiled.

  “Cocoa and soup?”

  I laughed and extended my hand to introduce myself. “Fin Brewster.”

  “Jules Howard,” she replied. “I’m new to the neighborhood.”

  “Ah, you arrived just in time for our annual snowfall.” I turned and started back toward the house with Jules beside me.

  “This is all there is, huh?”

  I’d left the garage door open, and led her through to the small mud room that adjoined my kitchen. “You can take your boots off and leave them out here. Your jacket and things as well.” I was busy shedding my own outerwear as I spoke. “Actually, we probably get two or three substantial snows, and it’s always an event.”

  “It is pretty,” she remarked.

  As we shuffled about in the small space, we bumped shoulders and thighs several times. When I nearly knocked her over as she stood on one foot to pull off her boot, I grabbed her around the waist to steady her, laughing.

  “Sorry. You first.”

  Unexpectedly, her weight settled into my arms, her back to my chest, and I found myself holding her in a loose embrace as she lifted first one foot, then the other to untie her laces. Her hips rolled gently in the curve of my pelvis as she bent forward to pull off her boots. My arms were wrapped around her middle, fingers splayed on her stomach. When the muscles contracted beneath the single thin layer of silky material, I had the sudden nearly overpowering urge to slide my hands up and cup her breasts. I stood completely still, barely breathing.

  “I’m warm deep inside, but everything else is cold,” she whispered. “The heat from your hands feels so good.”

  When she straightened I didn’t let go, but merely leaned my shoulders against the wall, braced my legs, and took her weight once more against the front of my body. My mouth was very close to the back of her neck. A few snowflakes still lingered, the edges blurring and melting before my eyes. I have no idea what I was thinking, but I touched the tip of my tongue to a single shimmering droplet that clung to her skin, and when I did, she sighed. A long, shuddering sigh of pleasure.

  “It’s warmer in the kitchen,” I said, my mouth against the shell of her ear.

  “You’re just what I need.”

  She reached between us and placed her palms flat against my thighs. I looked past her shoulder to a small mirror on the opposite wall and saw us reflected there. Her eyes were closed, her head tipped back slightly, her neck exposed above the crescent of navy blue. In the mirror, I watched my fingers curve around the column of her neck and dance along the taut muscles until I cupped her chin. When I pressed ever so slightly, she turned her face until I could brush my lips over the corner of her mouth. Her skin was soft and cool.

  “You’re going to get chilled,” I murmured, skimming my lips along the angle of her jaw until my mouth was against her ear. “The snow is melting, and your jeans are soaked.”

  “You’re right,” she said, her voice husky and low.

  She moved one hand from my thigh, and I heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper sliding open. “I should take these off.”

  “I’ll do it.” Watching her face in the mirror, I smoothed my hands down her abdomen to the waistband of her jeans, slid my fingers underneath, and pushed the material downward. She never opened her eyes, smiling gently as she shifted her hips from side to side to help me. The undulating pressure of her body rolling between my thighs made my stomach clench, and my hands trembled on her bare flesh.

  She was shaking too and from the heat of her body reaching me even through my T-shirt and jeans, I knew it wasn’t from the cold. With one arm around her hips, clasping her to me, I found the bottom of her shirt with my free hand and slipped underneath. I heard her murmur what sounded like a yes. She stretched against me, letting her head rest in the angle between my neck and shoulder, her hands braced against my thighs again, as I cupped her above and below. Her nipple hardened in my palm even as the silky evidence of her passion slicked my skin through the whisper of cotton between her thighs. I squeezed gently, then rolled my hand over her flesh, massaging her until her cool pale skin glowed red with the burn of desire.

  “Jules,” I whispered.

  “Mmm?”

  “It’s supposed to snow again tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” she sighed, covering my fingers with hers and guiding me inside her panties, drawing my fingertips up and down over the spot where she needed me. “Did I mention...oh, do me harder…yes yes just like that…”

  She was hot and slippery, her clit so hard I could barely stay on it. I rubbed and stroked and felt her knees buckle. “Mention what?”

  “How much I love…”

  She whimpered and I pushed inside, the heel of my hand crushing her clit. She slapped a hand over mine and ground against my palm.

  “Tell me what you love,” I urged, my throat tight, my heart hammering so loudly I feared I would not hear. She was close, her eyes tightly closed, her mouth a silent oh. I didn’t expect an answer.

  She pumped hard on my fingers and laughed. “How much I love…to shovel. Oh God… please, don’t stop…”

  “I won’t,” I murmured, watching her face in the mirror as she climaxed, the planes and angles blurring like a snowflake melting in my hand.

  Sweet No More

  “Having second thoughts?”

  “No,” I told Phil, my best friend from work, for the tenth time.

  “Okay, then.” He said something I couldn’t hear to the bouncer on the door and then motioned me inside. We paid our cover at a window in a closet-sized vestibule, and Phil pushed aside the black vinyl curtain blocking the entrance to the club. “Have fun.”

  The minute we walked into the Ramrod, Phil and his boyfriend melted into the crowd, and I was on my own. I couldn’t complain. They said they’d bring me, they never said they’d babysit. I didn’t really think places like this existed anymore, post-AIDS—a warehouse-sized room illuminated by black lights, rough brick walls, exposed pipes in the ceiling, pounding bass beat, and wall-to-wall bodies—mostly naked and at first glance, mostly men. Bare chests, pierced nipples, chaps over naked skin, straining cocks beneath codpieces and jocks. I felt overdressed in my leather vest and pants, even though I had nothing on underneath either one. The place smelled like stale beer, acrid poppers, and the musky odor of sex. Lots of sex.

  It was exactly the kind of place I fantasized about while I jerked off, picturing what I thought might happen so many times it was getting tough to come that way anymore. I needed the real thing—or maybe I needed something I hadn’t yet imagined. Trying to look like I belonged, I wended my way toward the bar. I shoehorned into a place at the bar and worked not to stare at the guy standing next to me while another guy knelt in the cramped space and sucked on his cock with gusto.

  “Beer,” I shouted when the bartender glanced in my direction.

  When the guy next to me grunted, I automatically looked over just in time to see him yank his cock out of the other guy’s mouth and pump it frantically, his face a twisted mask of concentration. Then he smiled at me half-apologetically and came all over the guy’s chest.

  “Nice shooting,” I observed and reached for my beer. I drank half of it off to steady my nerves.

  “Thanks,” he gasped after he caught his breath and wiped his hand clean in the other guy’s
hair. “You alone?”

  I kept my gaze on his face but I could hear the guy on the floor whining as he jacked off. From the sounds of things, he was about to unload a gallon so I inched away to keep the stuff off my boots. “Came with friends, but I lost them already.”

  “I brought a friend too.” He looked me over. “You a novice?”

  “No,” I lied. “Why?”

  “Because she’s not.”

  My clit shot out an inch and turned to marble. “Sounds just right.”

  He didn’t look convinced. “What are you looking for?”

  “I’m not here to look.” Praying he couldn’t see my hands tremble, I unbuttoned my vest and uncovered my tits. They were small and round with neat dark areolae, which made the silver rings through the center of each nipple all the more obvious. I gripped the rings and pulled, tenting my nipples until they turned white. “I’ve done sweet. Now I want something else.”

  “Like what?”

  I twisted both rings until my nipples wouldn’t stretch anymore without tearing. The pleasure and the pain fused into a fierce ache in my clit and my knees nearly buckled. He watched my face and I knew he knew I was struggling not to moan. “I guess that will be up to her.”

  “I’m Jerry.” He stuffed his limp cock back into his pants and sidled away from the guy slumped on the floor. I hadn’t noticed him shoot, but the puddle between his legs and the come splattered on the bottom of Jerry’s pants lit up like neon under the lights. “Follow me.”

  It was the best offer I’d had so far, so I did. I didn’t bother to close my vest. I was just another body. Besides, my nipples were engorged after the twisting and so sensitive if they rubbed against the leather vest now, I’d have to go somewhere and jerk off. I wanted to anyway. My clit was pounding like I’d been working it for an hour.