She walked into the room buck naked, a white towel wrapped around her head turban-style. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
I have to say, Rosalie looks better naked than most women do clothed. I tried to ignore the way her breasts swayed as she leaned over to grab an apple from the bowl on the table next to me. Her nipples were tightly puckered and as rosy as her name. I looked her over, hungry for her body but still angry at her for walking out.
“I didn’t think you cared,” I said. Despite my best intentions, I couldn’t help noticing she’d trimmed her thick, dark muff into a neat little triangle.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She looked like Eve tempting me with her apple.
I turned back to my book. “You’re the one who took off. You didn’t even bother calling.” I sounded like a petulant child, but damn, she’d hurt me. She’d never been gone all night before.
“I was angry,” she said softly. She tossed the apple back in the bowl. “You made me feel like shit last night.”
Last night I’d dragged Rosalie to my family reunion despite her protests. We’d been together for nearly a year, and I thought it was about time to inflict my family on her. Everybody knew I was partial to girls, and Mom had long since given up on finding the right boy for me, thank God. It was funny to watch soft-spoken Rosalie in the midst of my boisterous clan.
“What did I do?” I asked, genuinely baffled.
I thought the evening had gone quite well. Even Gran had been smitten with Rosalie, and that woman doesn’t like anyone who isn’t Irish, or at least Catholic. Rosalie had been quieter than usual, but I chalked it up to nerves. It wasn’t until we got home that I realized she was giving me the silent treatment. When I finally asked what her problem was, she split.
“There were thirty people there and you never once introduced me as anything other than your friend.”
I closed my book and put it aside, trying to avoid the accusation in her eyes. I’d had two relationships go really bad. She knew that. I thought it was a pretty big step just bringing her to my parents’ house. One look into those stormy dark eyes told me differently.
“So? What do you want me to call you?” I asked, torn between frustration and anger. Rosalie was always pushing for more than I wanted to give.
She strode across the room and stood in front of me, fisting her hands on her hips. Water droplets clung to her heavy breasts and the soft curve of her stomach. “Hell, I don’t care. Anything would be better than, ‘This is my friend, Rosalie.’”
I didn’t like her tone. I stood up and brushed past her. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Wait a minute. We’re not finished here.” She grabbed my arm and pushed me back in the chair. I couldn’t do anything but gape at her. Rosalie is as sweet and gentle as they come. She can be a hellion in bed, but we weren’t in bed and I was starting to get pissed off.
“Knock it off, Rose,” I said, not at all liking the nasty little smirk she gave me. “I need a shower.”
She knelt in front of me and spread my thighs with her hands. “What you need is to learn some manners.”
Before I could speak, she slid her hand up my skirt and cupped my crotch. A wave of heat spread through my belly and I groaned. She had that effect on me. One touch and I was lost. Instantly, I spread my legs wider to allow her access, all thoughts of anger fleeing my mind as moisture flooded my crotch.
“You’re hot.” She toyed with the elastic on my underwear. “Are you wet?”
I knew my cunt was already slick with my juices. “Why don’t you find out?” I gasped when her finger burrowed under the leg of my panties.
“Yeah, wet.” She finger-fucked me gently, her baby-soft finger gliding inside me. “I love how wet you get.”
The material of my panties restricted her motions, but her finger felt good inside my fevered cunt. My clit throbbed against the thin fabric of my panties, aching to be touched. I leaned my head against the chair and closed my eyes. Suddenly the finger was gone and I felt empty.
“Don’t stop,” I said, hearing a hint of desperation in my voice. Then it dawned on me that was what she wanted. “Touch me, Rose.”
She sat back on her knees, one delicate eyebrow arched. She looked like some exotic harem girl in her towel turban, kneeling before me in supplication. But we both knew who was in charge. “Touch me, what?”
“Please?”
She laughed, but I could tell by the hitch in her voice that she was getting turned on too. “No, you said, ‘Touch me, Rose.’ What else could you call me?”
I grinned at her little game. Did I mention she can be a devious wench? “Touch me, baby.”
She nodded, the towel on her head wobbling. “Better.”
She pushed my panties to the side and pushed her finger inside me again. I arched my hips off the chair and felt her go deeper. When I started rocking on her finger, she pulled it away again. I sighed in frustration.
“Take off your skirt,” she said. “Just your skirt.”
I eagerly complied, stripping off my skirt and spreading my legs once more. The crotch of my panties was already soaked through and clinging to the plump lips of my cunt. Rosalie leaned forward and inhaled my scent, not quite touching me.
“Mmm, you smell good,” she said. “What do you want?”
“Touch me,” I pleaded.
“Touch me…” she prompted.
I reached down and tugged the towel from her head, letting her long, damp hair cascade over my thighs. “Touch me, sweetheart.”
She nuzzled me with her lips, nipping my clit through the wet cotton. I groaned and tangled my hands in her hair but she pushed them away and put them over my breasts. I pinched my hard nipples through my T-shirt, aching to feel her mouth on them. When I raised my crotch closer to her face, she moved away.
“Are you ashamed of me?” She said it with a smile, but I saw the vulnerability in her expression.
I wrapped my arms and legs around her and pulled her close. “Of course not, baby. I love you.”
“So the next time I meet your family, you’ll introduce me properly?” She pulled away and teased my clit through the fabric once more.
I nodded, wanting her. Needing her. “I promise.”
“Lift up.” I raised my ass so she could tug my panties off. She slid them down my legs and tossed them over her shoulder. They landed on a lamp like a jaunty pink beret. “How will you introduce me?”
“I’ll think of something,” I said. “Now stop teasing me. Please.”
She blew air over my engorged cunt and I gasped. “What will you say?”
“Whatever you want.”
Rosalie had the nerve to shake her finger at me. The same finger she’d been fucking me with. “No. You tell me. I want to hear it.”
“Touch me, Rose,” I begged. “Lick me.”
“Introduce me.”
“Fine.” I groaned in agony. My cunt was on fire and she wanted to play mind games. “This is my girlfriend, Rosalie.”
A frown crinkled her brow. “Hmm. Better. Is that the best you can do?”
I was spread wide in front of her, her mouth inches from my swollen clit. My juices dripped from my cunt and down my crack, tickling my ass. I was probably leaving a wet spot on the chair. I didn’t give a damn. “My significant other.”
Her fingertip found my opening. “Too cold. I’m tired of your feminist bullshit. What else?”
I squirmed and clenched my muscles, trying to suck her finger into me. I groaned when I felt her go a little deeper. “My roommate.”
The finger retreated. “That’s worse than friend.”
I moaned, my brain searching frantically for something that would please her. “My lover.”
Rosalie cooed and the finger slid all the way inside. “That’s nice. Very brave.” Her thumb made gentle circles around my asshole and I whimpered.
She fucked me like that for a bit, her finger bumping my cervix as she massaged the walls of my cunt. I pushed
my hips up to meet her thrusts and her thumb lodged against my asshole. After a while one finger wasn’t enough, I was too wet. I wanted to feel more of her.
“Please, baby,” I said. “Give me more.”
She withdrew her finger and hooked her hands under my thighs, pushing my legs up on the arms of the chair. I was spread as wide as I could go, the lips of my cunt stretched taut, exposing me to her gaze. She bent her head and I felt her breath. So close. So damn close.
“C’mon, Rose, don’t tease me.” I mauled my tits in frustration, wanting her to touch me and yet secretly thrilled by her newfound dominance.
“I like lover,” she said, sounding as prim and proper as any librarian I’d ever worked with. “But it’s a little blunt. What else do you have?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t think.
“Tell me.” Her fingernail lightly scraped the side of my clit and I jumped. “Tell me and I’ll suck you until you come.”
Every muscle in my body quivered with need. I stared into her flushed face, seeing passion and something more. Something so tender and honest, it brought tears to my eyes.
“My love,” I whispered. “This is Rosalie, my love.”
I was rewarded by her brilliant smile. I had only a moment to enjoy it before she tucked her hands under my ass and raised my soaked crotch to her mouth. I groaned and squirmed against her face as she plunged her tongue into me. She feasted on my cunt lips and then moved up to my swollen clit, sucking it between her lips. She slid one hand up my thigh and used two fingers to fuck me hard and fast. I could hear the wet, squishy sounds of my cunt as I screamed her name over and over.
I came so hard I got an instant, blinding headache. She gently nursed on my quivering clit as I floated back to earth. The pain in my head faded to a dull ache as I looked down at her. Her mouth glistened with my juices while her fingers still made lazy circles inside me. I squeezed those fingers and smiled wickedly.
“What?” she asked, licking her lips.
I pulled her up on my lap and kissed her, loving the taste of me on her mouth. Gathering her damp hair in my hand, I tilted her head back to look at her. “What would you have done if I’d called you the old ball-and-chain?”
She reached down and tweaked my still-sensitive clit with her thumb and forefinger. “Why don’t you find out?”
I grinned and squirmed before pushing her off my lap and leading her toward the bedroom. I decided I didn’t really want a goldfish after all.
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 oth
er 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.
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